Melancholia
by Lucrece01
Summary: "I'm going to sleep now, under this bleeding dark sky and wake up in the morning. Want to join me, Snape?" She is insane. And he has a headache. "No, thank you," he snaps and jumps to his feet. "I think I never want to see you again. Have a good night." SS/HG. Time Travel.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

* * *

Hermione tips her glass and lets the alcohol swirl dangerously, threatening to overflow the brim.

She pouts and glances across the tables—a group of young men clinking their goblets, inebriated—she smiles to herself.

The place is dark and dim; the interior reminds her of the hippies—there is too much smoke and too many coloured fumes rising from the pots.

 _The 70s,_ she smirks.

She is drunk, she knows and doesn't care. She is too far gone along the road to destruction, too immersed in her grief and numbness—she doesn't care if she bleeds or burns as long as she can have that little light of forgetfulness.

Every night.

She comes here every night and there are new people.

Today the night has a few surprises—she recognises all too well the boyish faces of those grown men she knew and she wishes—Malfoy, Avery, Nott and... Severus Snape.

"A bottle of your oldest Firewhiskey," she offers the waiter an extra tip, "for Severus Snape at that table. Tell him it's compliments from Hermione..."

She chuckles to herself, inebriated, and watches as the waiter scurries off, altogether pleased by the large tip.

She downs another glass and it burns her throat—sometimes it feels like someone scratching the flesh from within—but she likes it.

It helps her forget.

Snape doesn't know her, obviously.

He couldn't possibly.

But she knows him.

And maybe, as she finds the alcohol wanting, she'll _fuck_ him tonight.

And how many kinds of wrong that would be, how many different shades of grey-she enjoys complicating her life to the point of no return.

* * *

Severus scowls as the waiter brings him a bottle of a very fine Firewhiskey and points at some girl sitting in the shadows.

Superficial curtains of blue and green beads hang from the ceiling and hide her from his view.

"Looks like Sevvie's got an admirer." Nott thumps the table loudly. "So who is this... Hermione?"

Lucius looks at him curiously as is his wont and Avery mutters something incoherent about not having been laid in the longest time.

Severus hates this... and he hates _them_ —these pureblood bigots with their pompous attitudes and superficial titles, sporting a new woman on their arms each day and murdering at whim—but he is a part, a _lesser_ part of their group and has been so for years now...

"I don't know, Nott. I don't _know_ any Hermione," Severus answers, not bothering to look at his neighbour. "You know I have no interest in females; they are distractions and any closeness to them deters my goals."

He is half-right—he has no interest in any woman except one.

 _Lily_.

But she is...

"Looks like an expensive bottle, Severus. My father has one of these in his personal collection, you've see it, haven't you?" Lucius comments softly. "It might not be a bad idea to return her greeting, at the very least. She might even be a person of some influence; she does seem to have the money."

Severus downs his glass and looks away.

He can feel the said witch's eyes linger on him and he is slightly discomfited.

No one has paid much attention to him, not when the likes of Malfoy are around to steal the limelight.

"I can take my own pick, thank you very much." He scratches his arm.

The air is dull and he wants to leave.

Get away from them, this hellish room and... _her_.

"Yeah, right." Avery snorts loudly. "When was the last time you shagged a witch, Severus? Donna, right? Sixth year? I've seen you mope for ages after that... mudblood _Lily_ and guess what, maybe it is time for you to move on and find a witch worthy of your attention."

Severus fumes within, his heart races and adrenaline courses through his veins dangerously—he wants to slit the bastard's throat for insulting Lily like that, for belittling her in front of him but he cannot. He stays put, quietly and lowers his eyes, digging his nails into the covers of his seat.

Lucius, however, is more subtle. He senses Severus's rage, always has, and places a warning hand on Severus's arm.

"Perhaps it would be a good idea to date, Severus. After all, nobody's asking you to love her. Just... talk to her, see if you can stand her for the night and get you aggressions out, if you know what I mean."

 _Of course Severus knows what he fucking means._

Reclusive he may have been, but Severus never overlooks things.

His is well-informed. On all aspects.

He feels a little—out of place. Perhaps the alcohol is finally gaining control over him and he finds it harder to sit between these people.

"You're right. Perhaps I _will_ go and ensnare the bitch," he mutters and staggers away from the group, wineglass held askew in his hand, trying to exude confidence he doesn't feel.

* * *

Hermione snorts to herself.

She has seen him scowl. The look of discomfort has been extremely amusing to watch.

She doesn't have to hear them talk: she knows exactly what they are saying.

They are all the same, with their prejudices and lies, their greed and lust... Nothing stands out, everything is very much... the same.

She is surprised, however, when Snape actually leaves the group and stumbles towards her.

He has had too much; she can tell from the way his legs wobble and refuse to move in a straight line.

She sucks on cherry, relishes the juice on her tongue and watches him intently as he slides into the opposite seat.

"I am Severus. Severus Snape," he introduces himself.

How... _cute_.

"I know." She watches his expressionless mask flicker in apprehension.

He hasn't got the finesse—or the daunting aura that she is so used to.

" _How_?" he asks, way too quickly and she knows that he is curious. Something that she _wants_ him to be. "I mean—I have never seen you before. How do you know me?"

Hermione smiles, a twisted smile that dies on her lips and she is left to wonder why she is doing this...

"I know a lot of things about you, Severus..." His name sounds so odd when says it out aloud, a sort of coppery flavour that leaves a bitter aftertaste on her tongue. "Things that no one else does, things that you would rather not have anyone know... you past, present... future."

 _That should hold his interest._

It should, for there isn't anything else she can do; he is too reclusive and suspicious—he would not stay if she were too plain and failed to pique his curiosity.

She hasn't planned this but now that he's here, she doesn't mind the company.

His coal black eyes narrow suspiciously and he leans forward.

"Who are you? What is your name?" he hisses slowly, his breath reeking of alcohol. "I won't ask again, and believe you me; it will not go well if you lie."

He glances at the group of friends he has just left and Hermione is more amused than ever.

Apparently, issuing threats seems to be a favourite pastime of Slytherins.

Oh, he may mean them alright, but she doesn't care.

" _Threatening so soon, Mr Snape_?" She laughs a little. "We haven't even got to know each other yet... I would hate to lose the opportunity to converse with such a promising young man..."

That puts him off his guard and he looks... flushed. They really are quite adorable in the seventies.

But he still looks cautious and Hermione can tell that he is nervous by the small twitch in his jaw.

"I'm sure you're just dying to know more about me, but I cannot tell you all that I know... not just yet." She twirls a lock of her hair and wraps it around her finger. "This place is rather stuffy and getting on my nerves. How about if we step out and enjoy each other's company for the night?"

She is drunk; she has had far too many shots and swigs and her head feels dizzy—perhaps she will die tonight and it will all be over.

 _Or maybe_ , she surveys the young man with her hooded eyebrows, _she would get to fuck him._

 _Wouldn't it be a laugh?_

He, too, is under the sway of strong intoxicants and his grip on himself seems to be slipping.

Perhaps he will take her offer.

Her heart gives a twinge of ache—a sad, burning sensation that penetrates her bones and leaves her feeling terribly alone.

She has to leave—get out, do anything to stop this madness...

She flings five galleons onto the table and stands up, her legs faltering on the stupid, Persian carpet and she tramples it insistently, under he heels.

"Well? What are you waiting for?" she calls out behind her, lurching dangerously as she walks to the doorway.

She knows he'll follow.

* * *

Does she have her wand?

"Where are we going?" Snape slurs, keeping his hands buried in his pockets. His robes are cheap and dirty—she wonders if he can afford laundry yet—maybe she'll fix them for him.

He clearly doesn't pay much attention to personal hygiene; cleaning charms are easily learnt and the first ones taught.

"You'll see." She giggles and feels for her wand. It's still there. "A little way off, in the Knockturn alley, of course."

"You must be a slut, no good witch would ever step foot in the Knockturn Alley," Severus voices his thoughts out aloud, the disapproval quite evident. "I don't even know what I am doing running around with you."

"Ashamed of the likes of me, Severus?" She takes his arm in hers and kisses his cheek, running her tongue over his sallow skin and notices as he cringes.

Just a bit.

She finds it hilarious that he considers her a slag.

Maybe that's what she is.

But she doesn't care.

They cross the Diagon Alley and stagger towards one of the darker lanes in the Knockturn Alley.

"I'm not sure if we should go there..." Severus hisses quietly, tugging at her urgently but she brushes him off. "This place... I don't think it's wise, not at this time of the night."

"It is quite late, isn't it?" Hermione muses quietly. "Ah. There is our destination."

And there in a dark corner, stands the shop she has visited before.

Borgin and Burke.

"Shhh..." She puts a finger on her lips and drags him towards the shop. "Be quiet."

"What do you want in there?"

"Tut, tut... don't talk," she snaps at him absently and then turns to look at his face.

It is so pale and vulnerable right now.

The moonlight is no help.

She licks her lips and gazes deep into his black eyes.

And then she kisses him... her cherry lips meeting his parched ones, their breaths intertwine in a sad memory and she clings to his robes in the shadow, feeling the taste of his slick tongue as she explores his mouth... devouring, moaning... softly, in hunger.

She can tell that he is surprised.

Once again.

When she lets go of him, it is with a quiet, desperate whisper,

"We're going to break in..." She removes her wand from its sheath. "There is something I need and you will help me get it, won't you?"

Perhaps he will say no and it won't matter to her anyway—this charade is just a means to get her adrenaline pumping, a means to stay alive and die if she is caught—she doesn't care which.

 _And he?_

He would probably be another casualty.

He doesn't say either yes or no and she's tired of waiting; it seems like a century.

She has not patience anymore.

"If you help me, perhaps we will... _celebrate_ afterwards. And why not, I don't think you have any qualms about stealing, _sweetheart_..." She presses her slight figure against his taller, leaner one and smirks as she feels him shiver.

He swallows and looks at her face.

She seems too troubled and deeply inebriated, she looks fucking demented and he doesn't know if he should just run—not that he has any reservations about stealing from Borgin and Burke—but he is intrigued by this young woman in front of her and he wants to know more, wants to feel more of her tongue in his mouth and the snare of her soft skin against his... Perhaps his friends have been right; maybe it has been too long for him and he feels awake, more aware around here even though he is ludicrously drunk and cannot think straight—maybe this will end badly but he wants to do it.

"It might have strong wards." He surveys the exterior and looks around. "We'll need to bypass them."

She smiles at him, inanely, and pulls out a beaded bag.

She reveals a pebble-like shiny object and throws it at the door.

Blue sparks fly off the handle and fade.

"Blood wards." She chuckles once more and he thinks she looks beautiful, horribly beautiful in the feeble moonlight. "Perfect. It will require the fluid of a pureblood. How _original_."

He snorts at the remarks. Unless she is a pureblood brat, there would be no breaking those enchantments.

"Do you want to offer yours?" She leans against the window, her legs travelling up and down the wall behind her and he wonders...

"I—cannot. I'm not a pureblood." He coughs.

 _Why has he revealed that to her?_

"Oh that is very _sad_ , Severus." She slashes her own wrist and dips her wand in the oozing blood. "Watch and learn."

 _Does she feel no pain?_

He has never known a female to be so... _indifferent_.

She slashes at the door once more and the spell seems to work—the door creaks open—they have only to enter and take what they will.

 _The interiors are ghastly_ , she reflects.

As soon as she enters, she feels drained.

Gods, not...

"Hold my hand," she stammers. "I won't light my wand if you don't trip."

She looks around; there is no harm in it anyway.

"I want that." She points to her left.

 _The Hand of Glory._

The one that Malfoy used... once upon a time.

"And that."

The necklace he used to curse Katie. Deadly.

"And this little china doll." She moves fast, gathering all the objects quickly, and drops them into her beaded purse.

She notices Severus pocket a few innocuous looking items.

No qualms about thieving indeed.

"Who's there?" a high pitched voice calls out.

 _From outside._

Any moment, the lights would go on and they would be caught. Severus starts to panic; he doesn't know if he should simply Apparate by himself and leave the girl to her plight.

But he cannot Apparate in this tipsy state.

Before he can think though, she grabs him by the hand and runs, dragging him unceremoniously after her.

She flings curses left and right, smashing everything in sight and Severus is unable to do anything but look on in horror as the spells leave her wand and hit glass cases.

Chinks of glass hit them and the shop is wrecked beyond repair.

A few seconds of deafening sounds and they are out of the shop—they run straight into two men—but she, _Hermione_ , flings another flurry of well-aimed curses at them and they are thrown aside.

He has never seen anyone act in this manner, let alone a witch, but he runs nevertheless—more people are on their trail and they run as if the very hounds of hell are dogging their footsteps—they turn and stumble, weaving in and out of the alleys until he is sure that no one's following them but they run anyway.

Finally, they slow down and stop outside a closed pastry shop. He catches his breath, his heart thudding loudly in his chest, and drops to the ground.

It has been very taxing.

 _"That was fucking great!_ " She doubles over in laughter, a maniacal glint shining in her hard brown eyes.

"Are you kidding me? We could have been caught, tortured and thrown into Azkaban for that!" he bites out, seething now that he has had time to consider his actions.

 _We were born sick_.

She turns her neck around in its shaft and massages it. "But we weren't, _darling_. That's what matters. That's the only thing that _fucking_ matters."

She too slides down the opposite wall, he legs flung carelessly on the ground, and she stretches out her hands.

"I'm going to sleep now, under this fucking dark sky and wake up in the morning. Want to join me, Snape?"

She is insane.

And he has a headache.

"No, thank you," he snaps and jumps to his feet. "I think I never want to see you again. Have a good night."

She leans her head against the wall and watches him go, biting her lips and swallowing tears, but no.

The night has been long and she is weary.

She will go back to the bar again.

Tomorrow.

* * *

Hey u guys, so this is a story that i think i tried to write before but gave up cuz it wasn't turning out right. Here's me trying to get it right this time.

lemme know if you like it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

* * *

She purses her lower lip and puts down the newspaper.

 _More disappearances_.

No clues.

"Only tragedy," she mouths to her reflection in the mirror.

Her apartment is small and bizarre.

It has mirrors for walls. She wards it every night, taking care to double check permanent security installations. But of course, if they wanted her—to capture her for some unfathomable reason, the safety measures wouldn't last very long.

She sips her morning coffee, black with no sugar, and leans back—folding her legs like a cat in the armchair.

She must pack the necklace carefully, in a brown package of course, and lay it to rest.

She has found the perfect place.

* * *

She watches him from across the street.

It is evening and her stomach growls in protest.

She holds a burning cigarette in her left hand, clutching the beaded bag in her right, and watches the unremarkable house with a slight frown on her face.

It is a bad neighbourhood—she has already had to get rid of two randy teenagers with a Confundus spell—and she wonders if he is living alone.

 _Did he have a family?_

 _Perhaps not._

The windows are curtained; the dull glow of light within mimicked by a hundred other houses around her.

But this is the Spinner's End and she knows where he lives.

"What a shame," she whispers to herself. The door has just opened and a sullen looking, youngish Mulciber seems to walk out. Severus hasn't followed his guest. "Our dour Professor seems to lack manners. He didn't even bid his friend goodbye."

She chuckles mirthlessly and casts away the burning cigarette, taking care to crush it under the toes of her dragon hide boots, and sneaks down the alleyway.

* * *

" _You_!" His eyes seem to widen in surprise and—anger. "Why are you here? How the fuck do you know where I live?"

His hiss betrays indignation and panic. But he doesn't close the door on her face.

He doesn't.

She leans her head against the frame and stares into his eyes, unblinking.

"I have a proposition that you might not want to refuse, Severus." She savours his name on her tongue. It reminds her of... "Let me in."

He seems unsure, almost on the verge of denying her an audience, but the teenager in him gets better of caution. She watches while shrivelled leaves whirl around her feet on the pavement, the wind too cold and unnatural.

His shoulders sag and he gives a furtive look behind him before grabbing a tattered cloak from the hook on the wall.

"Not here."

* * *

The alleyway is quiet and she senses no danger.

But she still fingers her wand carefully, gently caressing the ebony wood and staying alert.

"Before you tell me anything, anything at all, I want to know how you found out where I lived." His shoulders are hooded and he has his arms buried deep in the pockets of his cloak. His face has apprehension written all over it and she feels the lack of imperious confidence in his voice.

He is just a child.

"I followed you," she lies.

"Followed me?"

"Yes."

"But I didn't see anyone... I would have known..." He runs a nervous hand through his oily hair. "Why did you follow me?"

She chuckles and winks.

"Just in case, Severus." She tilts her head and crosses her arms. "Just in case."

He looks a bit... suspicious.

No cross that.

He looks _very_ suspicious.

Obviously.

"You're creepy." He frowns, the upper lip curling into one of distaste and this is a look she remembers far too well from her past. "I have half a mind to leave."

"Sure you do." With effortless ease, she draws her wand and trains it at him. "I have half a mind to kill you if you leave. But then, I doubt that you want that. Of course, we could come to a mutually beneficial agreement and avoid senseless carnage."

He blinks at her wand.

 _Defenceless._

 _Cold._

 _And cornered._

That is what he is right now.

He looks away and swallows.

"What do you want, _Hermione_?" he bites out, keeping control over his features and crosses his arms.

 _Oh you get better this game, darling. Of hiding and controlling._

 _Much better._

"This pouch has fifty Galleons." She throws it to him. "It's yours. All you have to do is come with me."

"Today?"

She nods.

"Where?"

A twisted smile crosses her features, almost feral, and she grabs his upper arm.

* * *

They manage to Apparate right in the middle of the cemetery. It is cold, so close to Christmas, and she is reminded of Godric's Hollow.

 _Stay strong, Hermione_.

 _Again and again_.

"Well?"

Severus looks at her, his eyes watchful and filled with apprehension.

 _Yes, dear Severus. You would have had reason to fear me if you were the enemy._

"Well what?" Hermione asks innocently, turning her head this way and that—carefully scanning the surroundings for any visitors.

No one seems to be around.

"Why are we here?" he asks, frustrated.

A genial smile graces her lips as she gestures for him to follow her.

"Pick up that shovel, darling." She points to one lying close by. "We have a grave to dig."

He stares at her stupidly.

"You're joking, right?"

She raises her eyebrow, not answering, and sits on the marble slab of the next grave.

"Dig."

His pale face expresses bafflement.

He doesn't move.

"Surely, you don't need me for this. You could use your wand to retrieve whatever you want." He looks around curiously."Why are we here, digging up muggle graves?"

She rubs her forehead with the back of her palm and fixes him with a sour look.

"I'm paying you fifty Galleons," she reminds him. "Surely, you don't _need_ information. Anyone else would not be so... _nosy_ and simply do as they are told. With gratitude, if I might add."

Severus crosses his arms. "Then get someone else to do it."

"What, and miss all this... _dourness_? Nah. Besides, why are you complaining exactly? All you need to do is dig. Easy money."

She watches quietly as he considers his next course of action. He is conflicted.

He wants the money but his curiosity is killing him.

One of these days, she will need to satisfy it.

"It says Thomas Riddle." He looks at her in confusion. "Who is that?"

"Some questions are better left for happier times, Severus." Her face darkens. "Don't go looking for answers in the night."

He doesn't like her answer but knows that there wouldn't be any more revelations for the time being.

After a long time, he picks up the shovel and begins to dig.

* * *

"Do you have a girlfriend, Severus?" she enquires softly, from her perch.

"No." His voice is hoarse.

He is meticulous in his labour and she admires him for that.

"Why not?"

"Don't need one."

"Tut, tut..." She clicks her tongue and caresses her jaw. "That is sad. Every teenage boy needs one, don't you think?"

"No."

He's almost done now; she can see the faint fabric of a polished casket.

"Stop."

He looks up at her, confused once more, and decides to ask no questions.

She gets up from her seat and walks over to Severus, standing beside him as she looks down.

"You've done well," she says and draws her wand.

The casket opens at a whispered command and she almost shudders at the sight of frozen bones.

 _Bones_.

"You're not a necromancer, are you?"

She laughs shortly.

"No," she says and bends down.

She needs to touch them, to know...

They have to be real.

Of course they are real.

Withdrawing a large cloth from her backpack, she collects the bones in it. Transfiguring it into a small pouch is no big feat.

"Hold this." She hands him her bag. "Carefully."

He's looking at the grave with a thoughtful expression on his face.

 _You'll know all, I promise_.

Levitating a brown coloured package from the bag, she deposits it in the empty grave and uses her foot to scatter mud all over it.

Her work is done. "Well?"

"What?"

She smiles like a cat, feeling rather calm. "Never dig a grave you don't intend to fill, of course."

"Of course," he snarls and bends down on haunches, intent on getting away from this girl as fast as he can.

* * *

 _Poisoned_.

She blinks.

He was _poisoned_.

A _gain._

 _You have to come back._

 _Rise again_.

"Whose grave was it?" he asks curiously. They are sitting in the corner of an overnight cafe. The service is mediocre but they have fine tea.

"Another time." She waves away his question.

"Who are you?"

She raises her brow, as if to ask ' _Do you really expect me to answer that question?'_

"Fine." He rolls his eyes. "I can't complain that you are not answering my questions. But if I get into trouble for this, any of it, I will hurt you."

He means it.

She smiles wryly at him.

"How's school?"

He looks discomfited. "It's alright, I suppose."

She pouts.

"I might have a few more assignments for you along the way, if you're interested."

"I won't be allowed out once the term begins after holidays."

She sips her tea quietly, pondering.

"What if I can find a way?"

He looks sceptic but dips his head in assent. "If you pay me well, my services are at your disposal."

"I will need you to keep this... all of this... a secret, of course."

Her brown eyes glitter dangerously.

He nods slowly. "I—I see."

"Promise me."

His lips part in worry and thought; he is a Slytherin and promises mean debt.

Especially for someone like him. But she needs his word.

"Promise me or we end this here. You shall never see me again."

It is bait.

She knows he can see through it but fuck, he is curious.

He will swallow it.

Willingly.

"I promise."

* * *

 _I shall rise again._

It has been easy this far.

The trouble will begin as she gets closer.

She ties her hair in a knot and looks out of her window. The street is crowded.

 _Stay strong._

But he has taken the bait and effectively bound himself to her... in a very strange way and she relishes that triumph, relishes the fact that she has effectively manipulated a Slytherin into her fold and she is confident of the fact that more victories will follow—but she feels old.

So very old.

And tired.

She has kept quiet so far.

Lain low.

Dumbledore knows nothing of her existence.

He mustn't.

And perhaps, before all this is done, she will get a chance to fuck her Professor.

She chuckles briefly, like a mad woman, and turns away.

"To the victors go the spoils."

* * *

Hey guys,

Um... not so sure about this chapter. Do u want more description or is this fine?

Also, I will appreciate reviews and criticism.

XOXO


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

* * *

Christmas time is nearing.

The morning is cold and grey—rather enticing for once—and she wakes up feeling fresher than she has in days. Perhaps it is the effect of a mild dose of cocaine that she took the previous night.

The package lies neatly in her dressing, inviting her coyly.

She wants to yield but she has work to do and drugs are always an annoyance when it comes to smooth transactions.

 _Oh well_ , she thinks and lights a cigarette.

Nicotine would have to suffice for now.

* * *

She looks impeccable as she walks down the Diagon Alley—dressed in a blue-green robe embroidered with a golden thread across the shoulders and seam lines—she feels great. Her chestnut hair, curly and soft, fly behind her flippantly as she makes her way through crowds of early shoppers.

Christmas is nearing and she needs to find a gift.

This holiday has sentimental value for her; she cannot remain unaffected when it arrives.

Flourish and Blotts is just as inviting as she remembers it from her childhood days.

It does have different books in stock, of course.

Not many people seem to be about and she is grateful for that.

"Do you have a copy of 'Tinkering with Potions'?" she asks the patron. He seems to be an old man, in his 60s, with a jovial face and a prominent nose.

"I have an old edition with me here," he says and hands her a thick book bound in leather. "Newer editions can be found in the third aisle to the left."

Thanking him, Hermione makes her way towards the aisle quickly but her path is blocked by large robes.

 _With a man in them._

She almost crashes into him.

"Pardon me, my dear. How very foolish of me to not watch where I was going," the man says smoothly and steadies her.

His fingers linger for a moment longer than necessary around her waist.

"That's alright." She gives him a small smile and turns away.

She really doesn't have time for the likes of Malfoy.

She has almost turned the corner when he calls out to her.

"I think I have seen you before. You were at Marionette's the other night, weren't you?"

She curses her luck. Softly, she turns around, feigning a sweet smile and she addresses him.

"Yes, I was. My name is Hermione Calaghan." She offers him a hand.

Now that she has to answer him, she sees an opportunity to make inroads.

A good one too, at that.

She can see his mental cogs work; he is trying to remember the connections of pureblood families and she wonders how long it will take for him to place her.

After a second though, he removes the black glove and takes her proffered hand, kissing it gently with a polite bow.

She is impressed by his sudden transition from politely detached to extremely courteous.

"Of course. I am very disappointed to not have made your acquaintance previously but that is to be expected. You did choose the French academy over Hogwarts and it was a fine choice, I daresay." His silver eyes look at her face searchingly. "I was sorry to hear of your parents' demise."

Hermione merely nods and looks away.

 _In another time, another place..._

"That is an admirable read, you know. My own interests are rather limited but one of my friends is very skilled at potions. You know him, of course."

 _Of course_.

"Yes, I do actually." She smiles sweetly at him, preparing to take her leave. "Pardon me for encroaching on your time, Mr Malfoy, but I must leave. I have prior engagements that simply cannot wait."

"Certainly, dear lady, but not before I extend you an invitation to the Christmas gathering at our Manor. You must be swamped with such invitations, I understand, but it would be an honour to have the great granddaughter of Alfrieda Calaghan attend our party." He kisses her hand once more and makes a short bow. "Remember me to your aunt."

Her aunt.

Ah.

The wizened old woman who lives in the deserted manor.

She tilts her head in acknowledgement and walks away, the wheels in her mind churning.

* * *

The rocking chair creaks and moves to the sounds of Unchained Melody.

It was her parents' favourite song.

She holds a gold locket in her hand, running her thin fingers all over it, caressing it deeply—she wants the metal to take her back and yet not—the conflict, the despair and the impending doom—they all frighten her and she wants to give up but she cannot do that just yet. She cannot afford another defeat.

She will be ready for it when the time arrives.

* * *

The manor has been decorated lavishly. Lucius Malfoy's mother seems to have a discerning taste.

She wonders why she is here when there are things she has to do.

Things more important than parties and socialising.

She doesn't really have to look for an answer; it is _Christmas_.

Christmas brings home every pain and trauma, every delight. And she cannot be alone. If she is left to her devices, she will go back to her apartment and inject large doses of cocaine into her blood.

And she cannot afford death just yet.

She needs company on Christmas.

Narcissa graces Lucius's arm, glittering rather too brightly—like a gaudy bejewelled insect. The entire team's here: Mulciber, Avery, Nott and Lestrange.

And Severus.

The hall is decorated with a wide variety of Christmas ornaments—artificial icicles hanging from the ceiling, colourful fairies hovering over the oversized chandelier, golden white threads of magic running and encircling columns and miniature lights gracing the paintings—all quite showy and a treat to the eyes.

But she has ghastly memories of this place and would rather—the conflict is never-ending and she must stop thinking.

She realises that the middle of the floor has been cleared of all furniture.

A dancing space.

She greets everyone politely, taking care to show off her mannerisms and pureblood etiquettes.

She is the sole heiress of her family and as such, she is important in their eyes.

"It is a delight to attend your gathering, Mr Malfoy." She bows lightly and turns to Narcissa. "And you, madam."

Narcissa's hand tightens around Malfoy's arm and she can catch a glimpse of pain in his bearing.

"This is Narcissa, Miss Calaghan. My _fiancé_." He stresses the word fiancé and she wonders why Narcissa's face has a pinched look.

He introduces everyone and she is the perfect image of polite interest.

She greets Severus in the same manner as she does everyone. He is a little surprised to see her here but he keeps it to himself.

* * *

"I wasn't expecting on seeing you here," Severus remarks. They are standing in the balcony overlooking a huge garden. Her memories of this place are traumatic and she doesn't feel entirely comfortable among these people but his presence helps—she can manage as long as he is here. Malfoy's eyes have followed her everywhere she went and it is rather unsettling.

She feels fucked up.

"I ran into Lucius at in bookshop and he recognised me. I could hardly refuse his invitation."

"No, of course not."

No one else is around. Most of them have paired up by now and are dancing in drunken stupor.

Lucius seems to have retired for the night-she and Narcissa probably had a tiff.

She faces the night with a feeling of melancholy.

"I think I've had too much," she mentions and feels her head. "It's this Christmas—it always makes me drink too much. But before I forget, let me give this to you. Happy Christmas, Severus."

She withdraws a brightly wrapped package from her purse and hands it over to him.

Severus is astonished, she can tell. But he masks it carefully and accepts her gift.

Before he can thank her, however, a wave of nausea hits her insides and she groans. "I feel awful. Was there something in the drinks? I might just die of over consumption."

Severus snorts into his own drink and points at a chair nearby. "You could sit there, just in case."

She leans over the ledge and looks down.

He's here.

He's so close by.

And she knows that he is different—he isn't the man she knew but he's here, a shadow of his older self—no, she has the analogy wrong; his face isn't sallow and his teeth aren't crooked... his hair is oily and it sticks to his scalp.

The air reeks of perfume and she feels a stronger urge to puke.

"That's not good," he comments when she bends over the ledge and empties her stomach, its contents floating about in the air. Something prevents them from reaching the ground. "Yeah, you really need to get away from there and sit down."

He pulls her away and pushes her into a chair.

She has trouble focussing; the alcohol in her system seems to have just begun tormenting her.

"Do you want to lie down or something?" he asks uncertainly. "Malfoy must have charmed the lot; vomiting will make only the intoxication worse."

"Your courtesy, I'm sure," she snaps as another round of bile hits her throat and she retches all over Severus's shoes.

He curses and snaps at her.

This isn't good.

She needs to get out of here.

As soon as he is finished Scourgifying his shoes, she grabs him by arm and drags him aside. "I need to get out of here, Severus. Help me, please."

"Why?"

"Just do it, alright." She squeezes his arm, nails biting hard into his flesh. He doesn't cringe or shout at her but looks around furtively and leads her through a doorway on the side.

He seems to know the manor pretty well, the dark corridors and unlit archway meandering across the length and breadth of the manor; he navigates it all with practised ease.

 _Great_ , her head buzzes with a splitting headache coming through and she will need to trust Severus completely on this one.

* * *

"I think this will help. Take it." He pushes a small vial into her hand. She feels less dazed now; the smell of open grounds seems to bring back her focus. "I thought Lucius might get a little over-excited and brought this along. It's a reliever."

She uncorks the vial and tips its contents down her throat. "You could have offered it to me before, in the balcony."

It burns her throat but that's okay.

She feels clarity return in small measures.

He scowls at her—that familiar downward curl of lips and furrowing of brows, his pale face looming above her—he is young and naive, much like she used to be, and his illusions are yet to be tainted—she will have to do her best to wreck them when time comes and she hates herself for that.

"I wanted to get out of there as well."

She shrugs and sits down on the grass, crossing her legs, and throws back her head. "I don't doubt that in the least. It was so stuffy in there... with all those purebloods and their unaffected airs..."

He says nothing but sits down close to her.

It is so quiet now and she feels better.

It's still Christmas though.

"So you're a pureblood heiress. You could've told me that," he mutters, silently picking at grass strands. "I've heard of your great grandmother."

She chances a half smile at him.

In darkness, he looks a lot like his older self—if she can only forgive the smoother curves in his face and a less ragged chin—he appears less youthful and more forlorn.

 _Gods, she misses him so much._

 _So very much._

"What are you planning to do after Hogwarts? This is your last year, right?"

He nods absently, the soft lines in his face quivering in the moonlight.

"A little bit of this and that, I suppose. I want to go into Potion making. Commercially. But I would need financers for that," he admits. "Or maybe I'll work for a while and save up... go into business after that. Lucius says he has an uncle in Paris who would willingly take me on as his apprentice."

"That sounds interesting." Her brown eyes glisten and she looks away. She needs a cigarette. "I could help you with financing, if you like."

"You?" His eyes trail down to the blazing cigarette she holds between her lips.

She raises an eyebrow.

"I-I'll think about it I guess." He frowns at her. "You smoke a lot."

She laughs out aloud at that.

Smoking is something she has learned from him.

"Let's go into the village. What is it called again? Anduras—something. It is close by, isn't it?"

"Yes, quite close, actually. Around half a mile to west."

Without waiting for his assent, she grabs his hand and sets off.

* * *

 _I've hungered for your touch..._

The village is brightly illuminated with Christmas decorations.

Bells. Holly. Thyme.

Thyme?

 _Gods!_

 _Why does Christmas arrive every year?_

She shivers involuntarily.

They walk through criss-crossing lanes and she wonders why he has accompanied her. She knows why she seeks him; he has no reasons to like her company.

"Have you been here before?"

"Once," he says thoughtfully. "With Lucius and his uncle. This village is one of the few entirely magical establishments in England."

Hermione knows that. But she has never been here before.

"Have you finished school? I know you don't go to Hogwarts but I was curious..."

"I have. It's been more than two years since I graduated." She pulls her coat closer. "So what's the most special thing about this village?"

Severus walks funny, she notices. He probably feels a bit inebriated by now. She feels okay though.

His potion really works.

"There's a statue of Godric Gryffindor up ahead." He makes a sour face. She remembers that expression quite well. It endears him to her. "They say it was commissioned by Helga Hufflepuff herself. Not that I have much respect for either of the two historical figures."

Hermione follows him through dark lanes. "No, I would be surprised if you had. _Courage and loyalty, why would any reasonable human being respect them?"_

His shoulders tense a little at her sarcasm but she pretends to not notice.

They have reached the town centre already and only one street remains to be crossed.

There are no lights in this part and something makes her suspicious.

It _is_ Christmas, after all.

"Severus," she whispers to him quietly and pulls him back before her crosses the alleyway. "Something isn't right here."

She can't see his face anymore.

It is too fucking dark.

So dark that she can fucking taste it.

"What? What do you mean?"

" _Shh_..."

And then she hears them.

 _"You've fucked with us for far too long, Artemis."_

She hears a punching sound and low wails of a man sagging to the ground.

Quickly, she reaches out for Severus and draws him back by the collar, clamping a hand over his mouth.

He doesn't seem to have registered this strange occurrence till now.

But he keeps quiet.

She can hear him breathe—that scent—she closes her eyes and concentrates.

 _"I bet you thought that you could just leave and run, didn't you? That you could simply desert us and we'll let you be?"_

She leans and chances a look around the wall.

The alley is a dead end.

Two men, clothed in dark robes and identical silver masks, seem to be hunched over a stooping man.

They kick him once more and he coughs, ejecting blood all over the ground.

She mustn't interfere. She cannot.

She looks at Severus and signals for him to keep quiet.

Her wand is out and she has an aim but she cannot do this.

 _"Make it quick, Desir!_ " the second man growls. " _We don't have time to gloat. The Dark Lord wanted this done and over with as quickly as possible._ "

 _Shit_.

She has witnessed this time and again—so many times that she has lost count—it is never easy.

She still feels terror.

As she looks on, a shot of green light flies towards the prone man and hits him in the back.

 _Dead_.

A crumpled heap devoid of life.

She looks at Severus and his face reflects much of the terror she feels. His lips are parted and his face is contorted—a silent scream has died in his throat—this is his first time witnessing a murder.

The two men Apparate quickly, in a billow of black and grey smoke, and they are left alone.

Once again.

"Dead?" he croaks.

She nods quietly and looks around quickly.

"It isn't safe here. Let's—go. I'll Apparate you back to your house."

"Dead," he repeats in a hollow voice and her heart breaks.

This fate shouldn't be his but there isn't a thing she can do to help.

" _Now_ , Severus." Her voice is emphatic as she holds his hand—it is soft and smooth to touch—she closes her eyes and feels the familiar squeeze take control.

* * *

So another chapter then.

I hope you like it. Let me know.

Oh and for the record, Severus is still 16. He will be seventeen in January. And Hermione is nearly twenty.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4 _: Les valses de Vienne_**

* * *

Severus stares at the blank parchment spread out in front of him. He is in the library, seated in his favourite place close to the window.

Since it is only the beginning of the term, very few students haunt the rows.

He stares.

His hair, greasy and unwashed, is tied behind him in an unseemly knot. His clothes are in better shape than before, thanks to the fifty galleons from Hermione—he has made a gainful trip to the Diagon Alley before returning.

' _Sectumsempra'_ , he scratches on the blank surface. He knows what the curse does. He has invented it, tormented by the ghosts of his past and present, he has needed this release. And it comes to him too easily, like a moth to flame, and he has revelled in it.

But today...

He caresses the parchment softly.

He has seen a man die, murdered at the instructions of the Dark Lord and he has to wonder...

He cannot escape the horrifying image etched in his mind—it stands out, foreshadowing all that he has learnt and despised, he cannot forget the look of abject terror, the protruding eyes, the begging tongue—all of it comes back and haunts him.

 _Incessantly_.

"Severus." A strong hand clamps down on his shoulder and he looks up. "I thought I would find you here."

Evan Rosier.

He moves sideways and takes a seat. Severus doesn't like the intrusion; he is a solitary teenager and would rather spend his day moping all by himself. But he doesn't have the luxury. Pretences are important when you belong to Slytherin House and Severus adapts quickly.

"Was there something you wanted to discuss, Rosier?"

He cannot keep annoyance out of his voice and curses when Rosier looks up in confusion.

"No. Nothing important." He pulls Severus's parchment towards himself. "Sectumsempra? What does this do?"

"I haven't tried it yet," Severus says evasively, trying to avoid this conversation. At any other time, he would have happily launched into detailed discussions about how beautifully agonising his newest creation would be. But not today. "I am not even sure if it would work. I need to research more."

Rosier pouts and lets go of the sheet, having lost interest apparently, and shrugs.

"Did you hear about the latest murder? Down by the village near Malfoy Manor?" He leans in and speaks in ahushed voice. "Artemis—something. Don't tell others, but my father told me that the man was a low ranking Death Eater. Word is that he tried to defect—probably contacted Dumbledore—and when he got wind that he had been found out, he ran. They caught up with him around Christmas, apparently, and he was murdered in an empty alleyway. And get this, they even got his family, around New Year and burned down their house—the Dark Lord doesn't do anything by halves, does he? Too bad that they are hushing it in the newspapers; the Ministry is gagging the daily Prophet, of course."

He chuckled slowly, expecting Severus to do the same but for once, Severus cannot find humour in the situation.

"Is everything okay, Severus?"

"Yes." He shuffles through his books, pretending. He needs to leave. "I really need to finish my project, Evan. I think I'll go to my dorm and carry out some practical tests. Have a good day."

Without waiting for an answer, he slings his bag over his left shoulder and bolts out of the library.

* * *

"Valerian?"

"No."

"Monkshood?"

Severus shakes his head once more, looking at Peter Parkinson in amazement. How the idiot made it into seventh year Potions, he would never guess.

If he were a Professor, he would never allow in students who scored anything below the ' _Outstanding'_ grade. Of course, that would reduce the strength of his class to one fourth of its original size.

"Verona root?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, give me that," he snaps at his neighbour and takes his Potions kit. Sifting through the contents is easy; he has them all memorised. He finds the requisite herb, required for a simple burning salve, and tosses it into his cauldron. The bubbling liquid splutters and fumes, quietening down after a few seconds and settles down into a gelatinous substance. "There. Now stir it clockwise, ten times, and don't spill. It is still toxic."

"Thanks, genius." Parkinson claps his shoulder and draws his stirring rod, ready to battle with his potion. Severus rolls his eyes and turns towards his own brew: a liquefied version of courage.

"Look at Potter and Black," a voice beside him whispers. "They must be cooking something. Look at their huddled postures; they can't be up to any good. We better watch out in case they are up to their tricks again."

Severus's obsidian eyes travel to the Marauders' group and he can tell that something is wrong.

Black is shaking his head and Lupin looks... shocked, almost _bereaved_. Potter, on the other hand, is quiet for once, listening to his friends talk.

He hates them.

Always has.

He has had so many reasons to despise them, time and again—nothing has changed since their first year and neither of them passes the chance to hurt the other—it has become secondary nature to them, to attack, hurt and best the other group.

For a moment, he almost forgets his detachment and wishes to gloat and rejoice for whatever has put team Marauders out of sorts.

But Evan Rosier wouldn't let him.

"I heard he was related to that Lupin, over there," Rosier mutters, slicing up his Sincora roots rather carelessly and Severus's hands almost twitch as he controls the urge to snatch them away, to prevent heedless wastage. "That man I spoke to you about today, he's the one."

Severus's lips twist in distaste. He looks rather unappealing, with a sharp knife in his hand and his oily hair sprinkled like cheese all over his face.

"He was related to the mutt over there?"

"That's what my father said."

Severus sneers and turns to his own cauldron, thinking.

* * *

 _Severus,_

 _If you're reading this, you know who I am._

 _Meet me down at the Three Broomsticks after dinner._

 _Tell no one._

 _P.S. I have enclosed a map to the hidden passage that leads to Honeydukes. Use it. Memorise it. And burn it._

 _Burn this letter, as_ well.

 _Just in case._

He crushes the parchment in his hand and puts it in his pocket.

She intrigues him.

Very much so.

He is silently walking down the Charms corridor, his hands buried deep inside his robes, and he wonders why she bothers an acquaintance with him. From what he has heard, she is rich, desirable and has everything that a woman could want.

 _Why does she choose to knock at his door again and again?_

He has seen the map; getting out of the castle should be easy if she's right.

 _But how does she know all this?_

He turns a corner, keen to get back to his dormitory but his interest is piqued by the sound of _her_ voice.

 _Lily._

His hear skips a beat, as it does every time she is around, and he stops.

She is standing with Black, the _scoundrel_ , by the stairway and they are talking.

"How's Lupin taking it then?" she says, her arms are wrapped around her slender form and she looks rather... sweet. "Did he know? Did any of his family...?"

"No. I don't think anyone knew. It has come as a shock." Sirius looks away, punching the wall beside him. "They killed his wife and two kids, you know. Young little things—hardly more than 5 years old—No one knew. Lupin barely mentioned the outline; the specifics are hazy. I don't have the heart to ask him."

Lily leans forward and squeezes his shoulder.

They are too loud, Severus notices. This isn't a conversation they should be having here but he has no say. He has no love lost for any of the Marauders but Lily's upset face troubles him. She seems vulnerable... and fragile.

"Maybe... they'll find the culprit. Maybe..." she breaks off.

Sirius barks out a sordid laugh. " _Find the culprit? Find You-Know-Who?_ Have you lost your brains, Lily?" He shakes his head vehemently. "Most likely, He'll find them... and all of us—all those who aren't on his side and maybe we will meet the same fate."

"Lupin's uncle was a Death Eater, Sirius." Lily's voice is hard as she edges away from Sirius. "Don't forget that."

"Yes, and _that_ is the only reason why people are being murdered left and right as we speak? _Desertions_. You're too naive, Lily. James is right. You cannot handle it, this... dark world. You're too optimistic."

Severus bristles at that comment.

"You're being rude, right now, Sirius. I think you should hold off personal comments for nw. I don't think we need to fight amongst ourselves, as well, when we have enough people trying to fight us on the outside." She bends down and picks up her bag. "I'll see you around. Tell James I'm in for tonight, will you? It would do us all good."

She is walking in his direction; he won't be able to avoid her.

He has been too late.

He curses himself.

"Severus?"

He is tongue-tied; she looks at him suspiciously at first and then back to the place where she stood with Sirius a few moments ago, comprehension dawning on her beautiful features slowly.

" _Eavesdropping_?" She purses her lips and gives him a sour look. He looks into her green eyes—so very emerald and meaningful at the same time, he cannot look away and she stands there, disgusted with his actions—she shakes her head after a while and walks away.

For no reason at all, Severus calls out to her.

Something he hasn't done for a long while now.

"Lily." Her steps halt and she looks back, a stern expression gracing her face. "I—I wasn't eavesdropping. Not on purpose."

She crosses her arms, raising her eyebrows in impatience.

He loves her eyes.

He always has.

"If you must know, I did hear your conversation unintentionally and I apologise." His voice sounds sincere and he knows that she believes him. It leaves her a bit ruffled, not knowing what to say. They have had a bad falling out and somehow, they never healed. "I am also sorry for your friend's ... loss."

He means his words.

He doesn't feel sorry for Lupin, no, he couldn't feel sorry for the mangled werewolf who tried to eat him; but he does feel sorry for the man he watched die.

This time, she seems to be at a loss of words.

She recovers quickly, however, and gives him a brief nod. "Okay."

He passes her a small smile and nods a quiet ' _Good Day'_ before turning and resuming his mental rant.

* * *

"I don't think I have ever visited the Three Broomsticks this late before," Severus voices out his thoughts to her. Hermione laughs lightly at his words; she lifts her glass and offers him a toast.

He looks a little flushed, perhaps it is the alcohol, but she says nothing and sneaks a look at the bartender who is busy serving a suspicious looking man in a trench coat and bow-tie.

"Lean over to you right, just a little bit. I want to block that man's view of our table," she directs him and retrieves a plastic pouch from her purse. Simple alcohol no more does it for her.

She needs the drug.

"Cocaine?" he asks with a raised eyebrow, tightening his hand around his own goblet. "I shouldn't be surprised."

She chuckles lightly at his disapproval, for it _is_ disapproval, but he hides it rather well. In a single gulp, she swallows her drink and closes her eyes.

"Do you like music, Severus?" she breathes and asks him, her mouth stretched out farther than it should in the act of a laugh but she doesn't care. She feels light... so very light and not sad.

"No," comes his monosyllabic answer.

"You are very succinct, Severus." She leans forward and looks deep into his eyes. "And I think that you're lying again. You _do_ like music."

He looks away, his black eyes surveying the crowd quietly and she feels the drug hit her bloodstream...

She giggles inanely for a second and then stops.

'C'mon, dance with me." She grabs his hand and pulls him out of his chair, not giving him the time to protest.

"I don't dance, Madame," he says curtly, trying to disentangle his hands from hers. "And contrary to your impressions, I am not here to entertain you for the evening. You talked about _assignments_ ; if you have one then speak of it or else I must be hurrying along."

She feels lightheaded; the pain in her side is spreading and his scathing words rouse her out of her stupor.

She tightens her hold over his hand and pulls him closer.

"I do have an assignment for you; it will pay a thousand galleons." She closes her eyes and chokes back a sob. She cannot cry. "Will you dance with me as I tell you about it?"

He hesitates at first but acquiesces later and she sighs.

"Put your hand around my waist and lead like a gentleman, Severus," she whispers quietly, holding one of his hands tightly, almost painfully, and closes her eyes. She doesn't want to let go—but eventually, she will have to and the conflict in her mind dissolves itself as the drug takes over, befuddling her thoughts and poisoning her emotions. "There is a tale, about a poet who sings of the loss of old times. I admire that song. Do you ever lament old times, Severus?"

She cannot see his face and his posture is rigid at first but he relaxes as the soft waltz music melts into the night.

Poison.

"I do not know old times..."

"Yes," she agrees and runs her hand over his cheek, sighing audibly into his chest. These are moments of frailty; moments that she wants to steal from life and she wants them to last. And she hopes that the music drowns the noises of her lament. "Is it possible to mourn for something that never was, though? To grow nostalgic for what you never had? I wonder..."

She lays a head on his shoulder; he stiffens at first but doesn't draw back. The music is slow and quiet—as if the universe knows their story and it doesn't matter that no one else does—she can hear his heart beat and it is the only real sound in her world, it is her religion for the moment and she will do everything in her power to protect it.

"I need you to come with me, this weekend, to a cave that lies on the outskirts of—a village," she murmurs into his shirt quietly, her eyes drooping under the heavy dose of drugs she has had. "It will take a day, at the very least. Make your excuses and tell no one, Severus. Will you come?"

It will be too late after January 9th, she knows. She is glad that his birthday falls on a Monday this year.

"I will."

"Good." She opens her eyes and looks at his face. He looks different somehow—perhaps it is the attire he has donned, a new one with finely cut and draped fabric which hides his wiriness and makes him look taller—or maybe it is an illusion, maybe she's playing tricks with herself. "Do you like my dress?"

She twirls in her white chiffon dress, holding his hand and her eyes shine in humour.

"I—yes," he says, not letting go of her hand, and pulls at his collar uncomfortably. "It suits you."

 _He approves_ , she notices in a drunken haze.

She throws back her head and her straightened hair, tightly wrapped in a bun, unties and falls on her back. She wants to kiss him.

But before she can make a move, a snide voice breaks the calm stream of her thoughts.

"Look who it is, the budding Dark Arts protégée of Malfoy and... a girl? However did he get one, Sirius?"

James Potter.

"I would say that he used what he's good at, James. And he can be very good at _the Dark Arts,_ you know." Sirius's smooth voice floats above the music and strikes her eardrums. "If I had to guess otherwise, I'd say he drugged her."

She cannot focus much; the drugs have addled her brain to the point of drowsiness but she can espy five figures standing close to the bar.

Five?

Oh.

The Marauders.

And Lily.

Lily.

She feels Severus's shoulders strain and she knows that he wants nothing more than to flee; he cannot take them on in his drunken stupor and they outnumber him anyway.

He stands no chance.

" _Friends of yours, Severus?_ " She squeezes his shoulder tightly, before he can reply and takes a step forward. "Good Evening to all of you. Severus and I were just leaving. The floor is all yours."

She doesn't want a fight to break out between them.

Not here.

Not now.

James looks just like Harry—the jet black hair, the cut of his jaws and his chin—she misses him. And Sirius is handsome, his face no longer haunted by the demons of Azkaban—he is youthful and reckless, she can tell. Lupin looks tired and she wonders why but most of all, it is Pettigrew who surprises her the most. He looks like a regular guy, a bit small, but normal, nevertheless.

And Lily.

She is beautiful; she is everything he ever described—tall, slender and lovely, her face glows in the dim light and her eyes, _Harry's_ eyes, look out into the world with a human innocence that she once possessed herself—how can he not love her?

She is remarkable in every sense of the word.

"Oh, please don't leave, sweetheart. The night is still young and with a handsome man by your side, you may enjoy it more than you did with... _Snivellus_ here. Of course, I am banking on your feminine ignorance to not have known the right sort from the rotten ones."

Sirius.

"That's enough, Sirius," Lily admonishes her friend and looks at her apologetically. "Have a Good night, you two."

Severus has a dark scowl plastered upon his face; he looks murderous but says nothing. His eyes have already calculated the risks and benefits of picking a fight here and he has chosen to keep quiet for now.

Hermione can read him like a book.

Hermione tilts her hear at the group and leads the way out, Severus following her stiffly but not before hissing a vicious ' _You will pay for your words, dog'_ to Sirius.

* * *

"Take this coin." She pushes a small gold coin into his hand once they are outside the bar. "I will contact you with this next. Be ready."

He nods quietly, his eyes darting back and forth from the door to her face, and she notices decisive lines crawl across his features.

"That man—on Christmas—he was Lupin's uncle," he says to her before leaving. "I found out today, from a friend."

His expression is dark and his eyes unmoving—Hermione squeezes his hand in comfort and gives him a small kiss before parting.

"Mourn for the living, Severus. It is more befitting to the times."

* * *

Hello again,

thanks for all your comments, you guys are just great. Alright, so here's the thing, this chapter is more about Severus and has less of Hermione in it. I am kinda trying to write Snape as he was back then but I am not sure if I have done a good enough job in this.

Please help me, I need to know your thoughts on Snape's character in this fic because we kind of begin from there and grow. Hermione will be a bit out of character, I'm afraid, and you'll know why soon enough.

Please review and let me know how I am doing.

Lucrece


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

* * *

Hermione dips her cracker in cheese and takes a bite, chewing slowly, and flips the newspaper in her hand.

They have finally got around to mentioning the murder, after all.

It doesn't name the culprits and is rather hazy on details; the Ministry does an excellent job of hushing up things that make them look bad.

"More coffee?" the waitress asks her with a smile, waving the pot in front of her.

"No, thank you," she refuses politely and goes back to her reading.

The cafe is small and has barely six tables but she likes it here. She comes here for breakfast everyday and relaxes by the window that looks out to the streets in the Diagon Alley. It is situated in a corner, mostly hidden, and not many people frequent it at this time of the day.

She gets her morning peace with no one around.

Vivian, the waitress, has grown rather fond of Hermione and stops by to chat whenever she can. Hermione likes her too and is glad of the company.

She reads a small article about a burglary in the town of Hogsmeade and bites her lip. Her fingers caress the edge of her cup lightly, absently, and she looks out of the window.

Her heart skips a beat—the wrong kind of beat, one that is out of tune with her entire being and one that torments her mind—her body goes into shock and she freezes, with that cup of unfinished coffee dangling carelessly by her fingers and the newspaper shaking violently because she cannot hold her fingers steady, she's trying hard but she can't and she cannot breathe and this shouldn't affect her like this...

'" _Pansy?" she cried in surprise, snatching the mask off her adversary as she fell and the recognition astonished her. "Why?"_

 _The girl fell to her knees, with a loud thud, the rain lashing her face violently._

 _She had grown to be a striking young lady and yet, the agony in her eyes reflected death._

" _You know why, Granger, damn it!" She balled her fists, her head lowered in a sign of defeat, and she growled like a caged animal. "Draco's dead. Bellatrix murdered him before my very eyes. She asked me to kill you and she would spare me... but you bested me once again, just like the old times."_

 _Hermione's wand shook in her hands._

 _Not this. Please, not her too._

 _I cannot. It wasn't fair._

" _Kill me now and end it for both of us. End this chapter here, Hermione." She looked straight into her eyes, fearless, beckoning... Her head was tilted upwards in a defiant gesture and her shoulders were upright—she was proud and defeated. "If you show me mercy, I will come back. It cannot end until all ends. The disease has spread too far and you know it."_

" _Do as she says, Hermione."_

 _Him._

 _He was her shadow, always around her, protecting her, keeping her safe and alive... She didn't want to do it and she knew that he could tell. He could tell everything._

 _But her hand trembled and the wand wouldn't work. Her magic was deserting her because she didn't want to do it._

" _Take this." Lighting struck the skies and she caught sight of an open knife in his palm._

 _No._

 _No._

 _NO!_

 _She looked at them both and turned away but before she could run, Pansy grabbed hold of her lag and she stumbled to the ground. She howled in agony as pain ripped through her foot and she knew that she had fractured it.._

 _He didn't help her._

 _He stood silently, offering her a knife and looked on as she struggled against Parkinson._

 _The blade was too bright._

 _She hesitated once more, moaning in pain, but there was no mercy._

" _I don't want to do this!" she cried out, with tears in her eyes, a sort of silent plea written across her eyes._

 _His lips twitched, in mockery or frustration, she couldn't tell._

 _But he gave in._

 _With one fell swoop, he twisted his fingers around the knife held in his palm and aimed it at Pansy.'_

Hermione closes her eyes and breathes out.

Bellatrix.

She rubs her finger on the polished table.

Bellatrix.

She blinks once more, thinking.

The woman in the street is a younger, less haunted version of her and Hermione knows that if she wants to succeed, Bellatrix will have to die.

* * *

He wants to say something to her.

But he cannot.

She sits by the lake, engrossed in her reading and carefully making notes. Severus sneaks a look behind him; the Marauders are far away and perhaps he can exchange a few words with her. They are generally very hostile at the mere sight of him and Severus reciprocates the favour but today, he just wants to talk to her.

Without interference.

"Lily." His voice is hesitant as he walks down the grassy slope and greets her with a slight smile.

She looks at him with her big suspicious eyes, frowning but not absolutely... unwelcome.

"Yes?"

"I just... wondered if we could talk." He bites his lip, an obvious sign of discomfort and plucks a few grass strands.

"Talk?" She raises a surprised eyebrow. "I don' think we have anything to talk about, Severus. In fact, isn't it _beneath_ you to talk to people of my lineage and blood status?"

He swallows.

It is... kind of, his brain tells him.

But his heart... disagrees.

"You know it doesn't apply to you..."

He cringes when he sees the look of indignation on her face and immediately knows that he has committed a blunder.

"Oh, so you're doing _me_ , a _mudblood_ , a favour by stooping low enough to converse with me!" she bites out, her tone stinging his heart's core. He doesn't mean it that way... well, perhaps not... but it always comes out wrong. "Go away, Severus. I think we crossed a line long time ago and I want nothing more to do with you. So please, be on your way, and leave me alone."

His throat goes dry at her words and he feels a guttural pain seething inside his chest.

"And take your bloody prejudice with you, you arse!" she yells at him from behind as he leaves her side, plodding across the vast grounds, and his eyes stinging in humiliation.

Why could he never say the right thing?

Why?

Maybe because his thoughts are in the wrong place.

Maybe.

But how...? He is right, isn't he?

 _Perhaps_ , he sighs, walking back with his head lowered and his spirits defeated for the day.

* * *

" _Shite_!" He rushes to the fallen body and has to control the wave of nausea that almost overpowers him at the sight—the thin, bespectacled boy moans in agony as blood oozes from multiple lacerations across his body, his clothes bloodied and drenched—his heart beats loudly in his ears as he tries to control his panic. " _The fuck, Rosier! What the hell did you do_?"

 _Sectumsempra_

A frightened Rosier is hunched over the unconscious boy, sweat beads lining his face as he tries to control his own violent reaction.

"What did _I_ do? It was your curse, Severus! I saw it on the parchment the other day. I was just experimenting; how was I supposed to know that this would happen?" His panicked voice is shrill and offensive, rather disturbing as well, and Severus curses himself under his breath.

 _Sectumsempra._

They are sitting right in the middle of the corridor and Severus is afraid of getting caught.

James is Severus's sworn enemy but he also owes a life debt to the jerk.

He mutters a stabilising charm to stop the boy from bleeding.

"Let's take him to the second floor bathroom. The Moaning Myrtle one. It is usually deserted."He says, grabbing James by his legs and signalling Evan Rosier to hold his arms. "We have to be quick."

* * *

"How could you do that, you dunderhead!" Severus growls at Rosier, his hands working in gentle motions and he feels the tingle of healing magic tug at his finger tips. He has always been good at this, for some reason, and he doesn't know why; he has always enjoyed curses of a darker kind and there is no kindness to them. He doesn't particularly like healing magic either. "It's a good thing I was at hand to prevent it or he would have died. Do you know what would have happened then, Rosier? Do you?"

Evan shrugs and makes a face, leaning against the door of a bathroom stall. "Expelled, I guess? I don't particularly care either way, Snape. I have my OWLs and my father is more than happy with my choices for the future. A degree won't really make a difference."

Severus places his hand on Potter's chest and moves it in a circular motion.

The idiot.

"An expulsion is the least of your worries, you dumbass," he snaps at him and turns his head. "You could have landed in Azkaban for this. You did turn seventeen in December, didn't you?"

Rosier tries to look unconcerned but his eyes widen by a fraction and Severus knows that he is a bit affected.

"Yes, well," he says in a slightly louder voice, a nervous pitch to Snape's ears, and runs a hand through his hair. "Even so, even in the worst scenario, I wouldn't be there for long. The Dark Lord has desired my joining. He wouldn't let me rot in that godforsaken prison, especially since my father happens to be one of his inner circle."

"The Dark Lord?"

"Yes." He is boasting, relatively calm now that he can speak of someone who has his back, and leans forward to look into Snape's dark eyes. "My father wrote to me about it a few days ago."

"Oh."

Severus removes his gaze from Rosier, the cogs in his mind churning rapidly.

 _Wasn't it his plan to get inducted before he graduated as well?_

Lucius has promised, through the Dark Lord's consent, that Severus would be granted funds and lodging once he joined them. His talent has shone forth, brighter than those purebloods, and he has proved his mettle time and again. His talent is the one reason why Malfoy associates with him so freely and frequently.

 _So what had happened to him_?

During Christmas... he had meant to speak to Malfoy about it... but Hermione...

Her...

She has promised him funds too. Money, apart from power was one of his motives for joining them.

But now...

His hand twitches at Rosier's next question.

"When are you due, Severus?"

"What's that?"

"When are you up for induction? My father said the Dark Lord would be very pleased to have you in his forces. I would ask him to recommend you but he says that Malfoy is your sponsor. Still, an early induction means an early rise in his ranks, especially now that his plans are coming to fruition. Wait until I tell my father about this new curse you invented; this is top notch stuff, Severus. They would be fawning all over you to join before you know it. Soon the world will be rid of Mudbloods, the filth that sullies our halls on a daily basis." He chuckles lightly. "Wouldn't that be great, Snape? I would use your curse on them without repercussions or fear."

Snape isn't comfortable with this talk.

Murder...

He doesn't want to admit it but he feels queasy in his stomach, every time he thinks of the Christmas night and Lupin's uncle... It isn't glamorous or glorious.

Getting rid of... Mudbloods... would it involve large scale genocide?

He doesn't know what plans You-Know-Who has in mind but before he makes a decision, he needs to know.

There can be no mistake in this.

"So when are you due for induction?" he asks again and Severus cannot evade it now.

There is no right answer to this question really.

He has to distract Rosier.

And make sure that he has time, still. No news should get out unless he wishes it.

"Evan?" He stands up straight, looking down at the unconscious body of Potter with mirthless eyes.

"Yeah."

"Potter's going to die."

"What? But you said..." Evan's face has turned pale in a matter of seconds and he looks at James's body in horror. "Should we take him to the infirmary?"

Severus feigns brushing some dirt off his robes. "No. This is a dark curse. Madame Pomfrey doesn't have the expertise."

"So what do we do?'

" _We?"_

"Yes, _we_." Rosier looks at him suspiciously, his face reflecting fear for the first time and Severus finds it extremely satisfying for some reason.

"There is no _we_ , Rosier. " Severus makes to move towards the door, pretending to be indifferent to the shocked boy sitting hunched over an unconscious one. "I'll tell them you attacked Potter with a dark spell. They'll check your wand and it will be confirmed. I wouldn't want to get myself involved in this mess. You understand, don't you, my dear friend?"

"But it was your spell!"

"I didn't tell you to use it." Severus shrugs indifferently, raising his eyebrow. "In any case, _I_ am safe here. I could try to save him, of course, but it will cost you."

Rosier's eyes narrow in anger and he balls his hand into a fist. "How much?"

"A hundred galleons. I know you have them." Severus surveys his nails lightly. "I want a wand oath that you will never mention this day or the curse to anyone again. As far as you know, it never happened."

Rosier's face is a humourless mask of anger and terror but he manages to nod his head curtly.

Severus has won.

He decides to leave Potter in the bathroom. He is out of danger and Severus doesn't want to stay for sick-bed niceties.

"Scurry off, then, and pretend this never happened."

* * *

"The moron!" Lily kicks away her shoes and lands with a plop on her bed.

She hates him.

The nerve of him, how dare he belittle her like that?

For a second time.

She takes off her robe and throws it into her open trunk.

 _James didn't turn up for classes either_ , she thinks irritably. Her day has gone from bad to worse, what with him missing and her brief encounter with Severus.

She's so tired of all this prejudice, the seething hatred that they fling at her every day—she has well-wishers and good friends but it still hurts somewhere inside her and she is very afraid of the world now that she has very little time to make her choices.

She is going to graduate soon and the world outside terrifies her.

She has support and protection but it isn't enough.

The war looms large in the background and she has to make every choice keeping that aspect of her destiny in mind.

She wipes her face with a handkerchief and sighs.

James's flirty overtures are not... unwelcome but she still doesn't know how she feels about him. He is both annoying and endearing at the same time. And he's smart, quite skilled and loyal to a fault but she misses something.

"Why are you here all alone? Is everything alright?"

Melina's voice interrupts her train of thought.

She shrugs nonchalantly and gets up, straightening the creases in her skirt and looks up. Melina is in her year; she's tall and blonde, she has just the right amount of character in her face and a soft lilt in her voice—Lily likes her for a lot of things, but most of all, she likes how her perspective offers her different views to the world.

"I'm alright, Melina. I just needed a break. The day has been taxing, to say the least."

"Tell me about it," she grins and bends down to undo her shoe laces. "They are working us harder than ever. I swear I feel nauseous every time I attend a class. I am sick to my stomach of having to study so much."

Lily snorts. "And it's only the beginning of our last term here." She bends down to retrieve some casual wear from her trunk. "I'm done for the day. I have to skip the rest of the classes or I will murder someone."

She selects a white dress with red polka dots, cotton with lace on the border and throws it over her shoulder.

"It wouldn't have anything to do with Snape, would it?"

She turns abruptly. "What do you mean?"

Melina puts her shoes in a small rack beside her bed and raises her eyebrow. "I saw you yell at him by the lake. He made a hasty exit, didn't he, in the face of your verbal assault?"

Lily makes a face. "I didn't know anyone was around."

"Well, I was."

"Yeah."

She doesn't feel like talking to her on the subject anymore and turns away towards the bathroom. Just when her hand is on the handle, Melina's soft voice stops her.

"I know that you've had a falling out, Lily. And I do not doubt one bit that it was his fault but I doubt he sought you to tarnish your relations further."

Lily tilts her head and leans against the door. "He's prejudiced, Melina. He thinks that my kind is beneath him. His ideology has led him astray and he has gone too far."

"He was different before, wasn't he? I remember the times when the two of you were inseparable." Melina's voice is far away now and Lily has closed her eyes. "You were best friends."

"I won't say that you're wrong, because you aren't. But maybe, you need to look at the world from his eyes."

Lily turns towards the girl, her back stuck against the bathroom door and her hand still on the handle.

'Why would I want to understand his self-serving, hateful and bigoted way of understanding the world, Melina? I don't owe him anything after all that he's done to me." He grip tightens on the latch and something constricts her heart. "Besides, I have friends who are far better, who don't judge me on the basis of my birth and who actually care about me. Why should i care about him at all?'

"You don't have to. But you're going to step into the real world soon, my darling Lily, and you need to redefine your colours." Melina tickles her pet rabbit and releases him on the floor. "The real world is grey and the sooner you learn that, the better you'll know where you stand."

* * *

It is too chilly. I _should have brought a jacket_ , she thinks as she stands in the balcony that overlooks the grounds. It is a magnificent view and she appreciates the evening sun but she is worried about James.

He still hasn't turned up.

She hasn't seen the other Marauders either.

Grey.

The talk with Melina has messed with her head.

Snape is history.

But when she looks back at the day's events, she is just the tiniest bit uncomfortable. He wasn't trying to insult her... Maybe he was. But there was also an apology there somewhere, she knows.

But she cannot reconcile herself with years of derision and disgust from Slytherins.

She cannot.

And he chose his side two years ago. She could forgive him his insults and offensive remarks but she cannot forget that he embraces the xenophobic philosophy that You-Know-Who propounds. He and his friends have hurt her and her friends, time and again. She cannot forget that.

And if it comes to war, she knows that he will be standing on the wrong side.

Grey.

Her eyebrows draw closer in a frown as she sees a small, hooded figure creep across the grounds. His pace is fast and the hunched shoulders remind her of someone.

Is it him?

Severus?

He is rushing towards the gate and her view of him is blocked by the Greenhouses but it leaves her suspicious.

Where could he be going at this time of the day?

And more importantly, why?

* * *

"You rented this room?"

Hermione looks up in surprise and watches him take off his cloak. He hangs it beside the door and loosens his collar. His pale face is just a little bit flushed—he looks like a red cheeked, pimply version of his older self but there is one difference: he is wearing colourful clothes and they suit him just fine—he saunters over to a chair and deposits himself in it.

"It was all they had, what with the annual village festival coming up and it being a weekend," she says and goes back to slicing her apple with a knife. "So... was it hard, getting away?"

"No. Not really. I actually took permission from Slughorn to be out for the weekend. I told him my aunt was sick."

Hermione continues her labour without sparing him another glance.

"Where is this cave... where we are going?" he asks after a long while. "Why do you want to go there?"

She glances at her watch and tries to relax her muscles.

"Just a little way off. I can't tell you the details. You'll know when we arrive there," she tells him airily, not keen on discussing it further. "But before we go there, there is something I need you to understand. Whatever we do there, no matter how strange or uncanny it seems, you will not question me. Promise me that. You will follow my commands, to the last word, and not hesitate. Will you be able to do this, Severus?"

He looks a bit uncomfortable but nods silently. At times like these, she wonders what goes on in his head.

She sighs internally and reaches for her cloak, ready to leave. The doorway is still open, she notices.

"These plums are really nice," he says, popping one into his mouth as he gets up.

She ties the solid thread around her neck, lowers the hood and pockets the fruit knife.

"They are imported," she replies and waves her wand at the light. It goes off with a fizzing sound and she wonders why that is. "Let's do this, Severus. Let's see how brave we are."

She cannot see his face from under her hood but she can feel him brace himself.

 _Don't worry, darling. I'll take care of you_.

* * *

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	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

* * *

"This doesn't look inviting," he comments dryly, leaning his elbows against his legs to catch his breath.

Apparations are hard.

Even after all this time, she still can't get used to it. Her body feels out of control and her skin is almost ready to peel off the seamss—it feels like every atom of her body is squeezed into invisible air and transported elsewhere every time she Apparates—she lets out a long breath and steadies herself.

The area is deserted.

The sea roars loudly, a gigantic enemy made of salty water, and she swallows.

She doesn't want to be afraid.

"It isn't inviting and it will get worse before long," she remarks, drawing her cloak closer around her thin figure and plods on towards the pathway uphill.

He looks apprehensive but says nothing; a sort of calm determination graces his features as he follows her quietly... Perhaps she is biased but she lauds his forbearance every time, even at this young age, and she longs for him...

* * *

"We'll need blood," she whispers slowly, running her soft fingers all over the jagged rock and sighs. She feels so old and this is a story she has always dreaded living. "The doorway demands blood."

"I'm not going to rip my arm open for this, especially when I don't even know what _this_ is," he says reproachfully and crosses his arms.

She glances at his pale face briefly. "I wasn't going to ask you, Severus. It would be in poor taste and of little consequence in the long run. Besides, I am the one responsible for your safety here, not the other way round. I would not ask you to hurt yourself when I am capable of doing the deed."

His eyebrows rise a little in surprise at her pronouncement but he says nothing.

Silently, she drags the fruit knife out of her pocket and slashes her wrist.

The blood flows quietly, drop by drop, and she closes her eyes.

* * *

"It's very dark in here," he says in a low voice, almost dreading the darkness around him. It feels abnormal. He hasn't had a clear view of the cave but it feels large and sinister. "Where are we going?"

Hermione has somehow drawn a boat out of the foul lake and they are seated therein.

It is an adventure in some ways.

He has been surprised by her though.

She has offered her blood once more when she had him at her disposal.

Surely, not many people he knew would do that, not if they had a choice.

People don't voluntarily harm themselves when they have options.

She is too quiet and her watchfulness is pervasive.

"We're going to the middle of this lake. The boat knows the way and it will guide us to our destination," she answers him. "I need something retrieved from there... something that is of importance to me."

Severus nods in understanding, a silly attempt for she cannot see him.

The darkness is loud and infectious.

"What defeats darkness, Severus?" she asks him suddenly, out of the blue.

"Light, of course."

They are moving along quietly, the still waters make very little sound on being disturbed but he still shudders at every splash.

"Yes, light. Remember that. Remember the light."

* * *

It's a basin.

It's a basin filled with a greenish potion.

A Potion?

She is looking at it intently, her eyes glazed and her face sorrowful—he can trace the outlines of her face clearly now, the light doesn't confuse him anymore and for a few moments, he feels hypnotised by her eyes—they are so brown and beautiful and he's surprised that he has never noticed them before.

Her reverie breaks before he can take his eyes off her and she catches him in the act.

An annoying, knowing smile spreads on her lips but she doesn't say a word.

"I have to drink this."

"What?"

"I have to drink this," she repeats, turning to him and for the first time he notices that she is not very tall. Her hair is dishevelled and her robes are flat against her clothes, drenched and heavy and her eyes look just a little bit afraid. "I have to get the locket that lies at the bottom of the basin and the only way to get rid of this potion is to drink it."

He wonders how she knows that.

But he feels that she is probably right.

"What do you think the potion will do?" he asks suspiciously, not able to recognize the clear green liquid. "It could be poison."

She gives him a wry smile.

"It's not." She licks her lips. "It won't kill me but it will start an adverse reaction of sorts, I'm sure. You have to promise me that you will make me drink this, that you will force it down my throat regardless of how resistant I am and that you won't stop until it's finished. Please, Severus, you need to do this or we won't be able to get out of here."

The gentle lilt in her pleading voice is laden with sorrow and he finds himself agreeing. For a moment, he even considers offering to drink the liquid himself but the thought of pouring an unknown potion down his own throat doesn't sit well with him.

He doesn't want to put himself in danger like that.

Not yet.

"I will do as you say," he assures her and looks at the dark lake. _It can't be simple decoration, can it?_ "The lake... I feel a presence. It doesn't look innocent."

She pays no heed to him and watches the greenish liquid silently.

A moment later, she conjures a silver goblet and dips it into the basin.

He watches as she takes the first sip, making a face, and gulps down the rest without a break.

He finds his own heart racing as she swallows another goblet of that innocuous-looking liquid.

 _Perhaps nothing will happen_ , he tells himself, his wand drawn and his eyes flitting around the cavern.

But his hopes are waylaid when, without warning, she falls down on her knees and scampers away from him on all fours.

He grabs the goblet from her hand and fills it with the strange liquid.

"I-I can't drink this anymore." She pants, her head held between her knees and he notices the violent tremors running through her spine. "Don't make me drink it, Severus. Please, stop it."

He swallows the revulsion he feels at the sight of her tear-stained face.

"You have to drink this, Hermione. This will make it stop," he whispers softly, not knowing what to do for he is all alone and helpless; for the first time since he met her, he feels genuine fear course through his blood stream at the sight of her.

She shudders and gasps when the next dose goes down her throat and she begins to jerk in and out of focus, her eyes rolling in their sockets and blood beginning to fill up the corners...

He hopes that she won't die.

 _Oh my god._

"Just one more, Hermione. This last one will help," he coaxes, hating himself for she wails like a wounded animal, trying to hide from him but he has a steady hand on her robe and she cannot run away.

"I don't—please, _professor_ ," she begs violently, digging her nails into his skin. " _I can't do this anymore. They'll catch up with us... Soon... And Harry, he's dead... I watched them carry off—I can't watch anymore..._!"

She throws away the vessel and Severus hastens to retrieve it.

 _Die?_

 _Who has died?_

 _Why?_

 _She called him professor?_

She's having hallucinations.

She sobs again, louder this time and the echo feels alive. _"I don't want to watch this, I don't want to run anymore... Gods! They're here..."_

She howls like a mad dog caught in fire and he is stunned at the agony in her kicks at him next and tries to scamper away but he holds her back.

"You're stronger than this, aren't you?" he croons softly, not sure if he's doing the right thing but he has to get out of this situation and the only way out is to make her drink this substance. "You're strong. You can finish this and then we can go. Please, Hermione, do it for me."

Her eyes seem to flash in recognition—tears have made inroads into her skin and the saliva reaches far below her chin, she looks utterly spent and lonely but something flashes in her eyes once more and she extends her hand—he swallows once more and feels defeated.

 _What is he doing_?

"This is the very last one," he tells her quietly, her sobbing form held in his arms and she shakes her head vehemently but he forces her anyway. It is the last of that foul liquid. "Please, Hermione."

She swallows it, reluctantly, and Snape closes his eyes.

He can't see her anymore—he won't look at her, won't see her in that defeated, worn out position for he isn't used to it and it makes him feel vulnerable and insecure—he turns away from her and stares at the object lying in the basin.

It's a locket.

A heavy one too, he notices, running his thin fingers over its metallic surface.

It has serpentine motifs as decorations.

"Give that to me." Her voice is faint and her face looks troubled. He passes it to her without a question. She envelopes it tightly in her palm and struggles to get up but fails. "Severus, you will need light..."

"What?"

"Light... "She gasps. "Look behind you..."

He turns, as if in slow motion, and his heart stops.

There, creeping over the edge of the small rocky island, is a rotting arm.

 _Fuck_.

* * *

 _Inferi._

His arm is on fire. The spell he has created is churning out all his energies, dividing his soul into multiple threads and he feels that he will collapse from sheer strain—they keep coming, on all sides and he has no hope—he doesn't want to die here.

Just as he stands on the last strands of his strength, a deafening roar of blazing light erupts from behind him and the cave lights up like a bride.

* * *

" _The fuck, Hermione_!" he growls at her, not caring that she is hardly in a condition to stand up and is sitting with her back against a rock. "We could have died there. How could you be stupid enough to not tell me that there were Inferi in that lake? Why the fuck would you even want to go to a place like that!"

They've made it outside.

He doesn't know how.

He remembers using every bit of his power, every spell of light that he had to drive away those gruesome corpses from dragging the two of them underwater. He had almost lost but Hermione somehow managed to create Fiendfyre, using all her remaining reserves of power, and drove away the moldering army of darkness.

He is grateful; she has saved him again but right now, he doesn't care. His rage is taking over every other sense he has and he needs to vent.

He could've died there and the thought terrifies him. He isn't ready to die yet.

She is hunched over the ground once more and he knows there's something wrong with her but he cannot care.

 _He won't_

" _You know what, I am done with you and your stupid assignments!"_ he yells at her once more, over the loud noise that the ocean's making, and sits down on the nearby rock. "Are you going to say something or not? How could you lead me into a trap without even telling me what lay ahead?"

She is at fault, it's true.

And he could have died.

"Severus..." Her voice is faint and pleading. He notices that she cannot stand and she has her right hand pressed against her waist. "You'll need to –make arrangements to return to the castle y-yourself. I cannot-A-Apparate you to Hogsmeade."

He frowns at her response.

"Are you okay?" he asks automatically, despite himself, and finds himself just a little bit concerned for no reason at all.

She shakes her head and squeezes her eyes shut.

He moves closer to her and lays a hand around her shoulder, pulling her up by supporting her back and his eyes move to where she has her hand placed tightly.

"I'll have to help you, I guess." He sighs, reasoning that if this is to be his last sojourn with her, he needs to get paid and then leave. You could never trust people. "You'd probably die if I left you alone here and then all my work would be for nothing."

Besides, he also needs answers.

He needs to know why she is doing all this.

He needs to know everything and until that happens, he is not leaving her side.

He has had enough.

She doesn't seem to have much idea of what's going on and since Severus cannot Apparate, he decides to take her to the village nearby.

Her small body is pressed tightly against his wiry one and she feels warm—her hair keeps fanning his face and he would use his wand to tie it up but he has lost it back in the cave and he blames her for it, for all of it—he helps her down the slope with a scowl on his face.

* * *

" _James_!" She jumps out of her chair as soon as she sees him topple through the portrait hole. His jet-black hair is a mess and his glasses look broken but apart from the muck and grime clinging to his robes, he seems fine. "Where have you been all day? And where are the others?"

She helps him to a chair close to the fireplace; it's a good thing that the common room is almost empty and they have privacy.

He closes his eyes and leans against the rest.

"What happened?" she asks again.

"I don't know Lily, I think it was... Rosier." He massages his temple and jerks his head. "He attacked me when I was on my way to Charms. I was late, I think, and Sirius and the others had gone ahead..."

Lily's lips press tightly.

"Why would he do that?"

"He's a Slytherin."

Any other time, she wouldn't ask further. She isn't biased against them, probably a _little_ bit, but she would have dismissed it as a regular occurrence, faulting both the parties equally.

" _James_." Her tone has warning to it and she enjoys how he looks away from her, visibly humbled. "I'm sure that there is more to your story."

"What—oh, fine," he snaps at her. "If you must know, Sirius pulled a prank on his brother and for some reason, Rosier got it into his head that _I_ was behind it. So he got me when no one was looking and attacked. It was a dark curse, too, mind you."

"I see. James—"

"The one thing I don't get about all this, though, is who saved me. No one was there. He should have had a field day." He scratches his head. "But no, I woke up unconscious in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, fully healed with no saviour at my side."

He means to sound funny but Lily doesn't find humour in it.

"Where are Sirius and others?" he asks her.

"Looking for you, perhaps," she informs him absently with a smile. She doesn't know how she should feel about this boy in front of her. She really doesn't. "They'll be back soon, I guess."

"I'll go change out of these robes myself," he says and gets up. "I smell like toilet."

"That you do."

* * *

The weekend's cold and Lily doesn't want to stay in the library anymore.

She is sure that it was Snape she saw leaving the ground the previous night. It was late and she is sure that he wouldn't have had time to return.

She hasn't seen him at breakfast this morning either.

It had to be him.

"Lils," Sirius appears out of nowhere, suddenly, and she almost jumps at the sound he makes. "Got you, babe."

"Oh yeah." She grabs her book and aims for his head but he ducks and she misses. "You're a walking menace, you know."

He slides into a chair next to her and grins at her. "I aim to please, my lady. Why are you here on a Sunday? Didn't you have a date with James?"

She reclaims her book from the floor and takes a seat beside him. "I cancelled it. I had some homework to finish and I didn't feel like going outdoors. It so cold..."

"I'm sure that James was elated." He laughs out. It is a boyish laugh, full and carefree and she realises that she likes this aspect of his personality the best. "He did tell you about the talk we had with Dumbledore, didn't he?"

Lily frowns at him, her green eyes meeting his mischievous black ones and she shakes her head. "No, he didn't tell me about anything."

"Probably forgot." He shrugs carelessly. "He called us for a meeting , you know, yesterday. Me, Lupin, Bones and Smith from Hufflepuff and a bunch of others from Ravenclaw. We couldn't find James but he was invited as well. He was pretty serious about the You-Know-Who business. He wants us to join the Order as soon as we graduate."

He seems rather proud and boastful of the invitation, Lily notices.

"The Order of the Phoenix?"

"Yeah, that's the one. He didn't' invite Peter though, probably thought him a little less trained or something."

Lily has known that this would come but she still feels speechless.

"Do you really think this is wise, Sirius?"

'What do you mean?"

"We are not soldiers or fighters—we hardly know anything about fighting wars and here's this society that operates in secret wanting to recruit you... Isn't this supposed to be the government's area of expertise? Aren't _they_ supposed to wage wars and raising armies?"

Siruis looks at her with incredulity. "The government is made up of morons, Lily. Everyone knows that. Besides, Dumbledore is a powerful wizard and he knows that the Ministry cannot be depended on. That's why he's created the Order."

"Yes, but it seems rather silly to recruit teenagers for combat," she snaps at him. She can already see that he will not appreciate her point of view but that's okay with her.

He cannot understand her.

Just like she cannot understand him.

"You-Know-Who's getting them young, too, you know." He leans closer. "Most of the Slytherin students will be in his ranks before we even graduate. I don't see how you can find fault with Dumbledore's reasoning."

'I'm not finding fault, you idiot, I just don' like it," she retorts and draws back. "Of course I don't want the other side winning, if it comes to war, but I don't want to die either. And that is very likely to happen if we fight unprepared."

Sirius glares at her.

'You're afraid, aren't you? You're just plain afraid and you're trying to find fault with others because you're too scared to venture out and risk your pretty neck for what's right. Besides, _He_ is waging a war against Muggleborns and you stand to lose more than anyone else!"

That shuts her up.

"I'm not afraid, Sirius." She gathers her belongings and pushes them into her open bag. "And I do want to fight for what's right but I don't think that we are ready yet. None of us is."

"No one asked you, Lily," Sirius replies. "Dumbledore didn't invite you."

Yes, he hasn't.

But he has invited James.

"Does James... does he agree with you?"

Sirius looks at her ponderously. "He does." He runs a hand through his thick hair and curses. "Don't—mind my words, Lily. It's just... I feel that this is right and that I _am_ ready, you know. I want to do my bit. I left my home, I cut off all ties with my parents; I need to prove them wrong and I need to live in a world where _they_ don't win."

Lily removes a lock of hair from her face and holds her books closer to her chest. "I understand, Sirius. We are all allowed our choices and I respect you courage. I just—don't want to see any of you get hurt."

His lopsided smile is filled with humour and sadness. "We're very resilient, Lily. We don't fall. Besides, I would love to push one or two Unforgivables down the Slytherins' throats."

"Sirius!"

"I won't apologise."

She huffs at him and slings her bag over her shoulder, leaving a chuckling Sirius in her wake.

* * *

Hey guys, So this one was faster than others.

Let me know if you likes it. Reviews are my bread and butter lol

R&R


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

* * *

 _Oh God._

She is hunched over the washbasin, peering into the mirror that reflects her narrowed eyes.

Fear and pain have contorted her features.

"Are you alright in there?" She hears Severus call out from the room.

She is in the bathroom—a cheap, dimly lit enclosure in a room at the inn on village outskirts—she grabs the side of her abdomen and breathes heavily.

' _I want to experience grandeur...'_

She tears open her top and scans her side. The long slash is black and ugly; it is bleeding a foul, dark substance and she has to grab the door for support... before she can get around to cleaning it.

She doesn't have the medicines and the pain is worsening every moment.

She presses the wound and screams involuntarily, whirling on her feet as she collapses on the ground.

* * *

"Are you going to tell me or not?"

His words echo off the walls of his mind and he watches her shudder.

It is cold in the room and there is no fire.

She sits in the lumpy bed, blanket drawn up to her chin—and stares motionlessly into space, a vein twitching in her jaw, and it looks like she hasn't heard him—he coughs again, trying to draw her attention to him.

"You should go, Severus. I've got some muggle money here; catch a bus to London and take the Knight bus," she whispers faintly, reaching towards her coat.

 _She can hardly hold up, he can tell, and she wishes him to leave?_

 _What is she hiding_?

"I'm not leaving, Hermione, until you tell me everything." He wipes his nose with a handkerchief and looks away. She has an ugly wound around the abdominal area—a sort of slash that runs deep and oozes a foul, gelatinous substance and he has tried to help her but she has pushed him away each time, insisting that she can manage—he isn't going to insist upon helping her if she doesn't want it.

"If you want to make it to Hogwarts in time, you should leave right now. It will be evening soon." She sighs and tried to scoot to the other side—it costs her a lot of effort and the lines of torment are all too visible in her face—she gives up and throws her head onto the pillow. "I'd really appreciate it if you didn't ask me more questions. Please."

"No."

"What?"

"No." He cracks his knuckles and yawns. "I have gone along with your whims and silly quests without a single question; I almost _died_ today. I have no intention of seeing you again, Hermione, and hence I demand to know everything. What are you doing? I know about your family but who are you and why are you doing all this. I think you owe me an explanation after that little incident in the cave which nearly cost me my life!"

She seems tired but he won't let her be.

The innkeeper said that last bus for London leaves at noon and he has enough time on his hands.

"I can't tell you."

He stares at her.

"I'm no leaving until you do, then."

She stares back at him, her face grim and shadowed, and he thinks that there is this strange, indefinable quality about her which he finds intriguing... almost attractive.

"You're being ridiculous." She leans back, her hand pressed tightly against her side. "You know what, stay here by all means. I don't care. Good luck explaining your absence to the Headmaster."

Does she think him so naive?

Does she really believe he would blackmail, even playfully, without having something substantial to trade?

 _She would have been sorted into Gryffindor_ , he thinks for some reason and then jerks his head.

"I have no intention of skipping out on school." He digs into his pocket and drags out a solid gold chain.

The locket hangs by it.

 _The very locket she has almost died to acquire_ , he considers and lifts a lazy brow at the look of incredulity on her face.

"You stole that from me? You—you—" she stutters, trying hard to get up from her bed and fails. He notices the manner in which her eyes crinkle and scrunch up in pain—he mustn't play this game for long. "Give that back to me, Severus. You have no idea of what you're dealing with here!"

"That is exactly what I am trying to find out," he retorts, determined to have the truth out of her soon. "Tell me now and the locket is yours. Or else, when I leave today, I will take it with me."

She sits silent for the longest time.

He feels pity for her, at times, and he knows that she is injured.

 _Maybe he should help her_ , he swallows. _No. It isn't any of his business_. She has brought all of it upon herself and he doesn't want to be involved with her further—she is trouble and he has decided to keep away from her, even if a small part of him remains intrigued and deeply fascinated by her strength and power—he has to leave soon.

"Are you going to tell me?" he persists, leaning forward to lend emphasis to his demand.

Her jaw clenches.

She grits her teeth in anger and when she looks at him, he realises that she is one person he would never like to cross seriously—simple, innocent spats are okay but the vicious glare in her eyes... if it were ever to reach crimson and fill her with enough rage, she would kill without second thought and he knows this for some unfathomable reason—he looks away, crossing arms over his chest and keeping his mouth shut.

"I am trying to save my friends from a horrible fate, Severus." She rests against the headboard and closes her eyes. "If I fail, they all die. I'm trying to prevent that from happening. There are forces about that would want to see me dead and I think you have witnessed firsthand what those forces can do to people. You remember what it's like to have friends, don't you?"

"Who are your friends? Where are they? Are they captive?" he asks curiously. "If they are free then why are you alone? And how have you survived so long without being captured yourself? And who is behind all this—"

"This is as far as I am willing to go, Severus." She purses her lips and fixes him with a pointed stare.

He pauses.

No.

He still doesn't know anything much but one look at her face tells him that she would not succumb to his blackmail further; he decides to leave and not get tangled in whatever fucked up mess this woman has got herself into.

He tosses the locket onto her bed and gets up.

It lands with a soft thump.

Right when he is about to leave, a hard thud surprises him.

His lips part open when he locates the source of noise; a sharp knife is lodged deep into the door frame, barely inches away from his head.

"Don't mess with me again, Severus." He hears her murmur softly behind him. The cold threat runs shivers down his spine. She could have hit him anytime and he would not have seen it coming. "I have means of defending myself without a wand and you would not appreciate the surprise."

He gulps, averting his eyes from the sharp blade and tugs at the doorknob.

Without another word, he crosses the threshold and slams the door shut behind him.

It is only when the cold gust of wind hits him that he realises he hasn't been paid for his services yet. But he doesn't want to go back up there and haggle with the crazy woman.

No. He would owl her for payment. That's the best option.

* * *

" _Lily, duck_!" Mary grabs her shoulder and pulls them both downwards. Lily, taken by surprise, collides with the hard surface face forward and the curse barely manages to slash open her bag.

"What the hell!" she shouts and whips backwards, trying to locate the culprits but they seem to have scuttled away quickly.

Her books lie scattered on the ground, open and torn in places.

She offers Mary her hand and pulls her up.

"Who was it?" she asks her, massaging her bruised elbow.

"It was the same old twits," Mary answers, scowling at her torn skirt. "I couldn't get a good look at them but there were three boys."

"Slytherins," Lily curses under her breath and bends down to grab her books. "I am tired of their stupid, vindictive pranks. The nerve of them! Sometimes, it really makes me want to side with the Marauders and beat the crap out of those snakes."

Mary snorts and picks up her own books. "Amen to that. Come on, or you'll be late for your Defence class."

Mary bids her good day and leaves for her Muggle Studies class. By the time she reaches her class, Lily is late. The Professor waves her in without docking off points, however, and she hurries off to sit in the only vacant place available beside Severus.

 _Great_.

She stows her bag under her desk and sits down grumpily. Severus doesn't pay much attention, however, and she is glad for the same.

She doesn't want to have o deal with him as well, on top of the bad start she has got on her day.

They are learning theory today.

 _Very well,_ she thinks and drags out a thick book from her bag.

Time literally lingers on.

She still sits moodily, turning over the pages absently and not paying attention.

For once, she would like to not be targeted for her blood.

For once, she wants to just... be a part of this fascinating world, without anyone looking down on her because of her heritage.

 _Is that too much to ask for?_

She glances at Snape briefly. He, too, is idly turning over the pages in his book. He is one of them; one of those people who revile her accomplishments and have fit her into narrow, bigoted boxes in their minds and there isn't much she can do to change them.

Prejudice.

His eyes are unfocussed and she wonders what he is thinking about.

He hasn't looked her way once and for some reason, it bothers her.

"What's with you?" she asks him without meaning to and slaps her head mentally.

 _Too late._

He has heard her.

" _What's with you?"_

He's surprised when she asks him the question.

They haven't exchanged many decent words in the recent past and her concern startles him.

"Nothing," he replies, feeling a little elated and saddened at the same time. "I'm fine. Are you okay?"

He has just noticed the bruised elbow and white patches of dust on her skirt.

"You should know, shouldn't you?"

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, are you trying to plead ignorance?" she mutters, slamming her book shut. "Are you telling me that you had no idea some of your cronies attacked Mary and me today? They scurried away like cowards but I wouldn't be surprised if you were involved as well. Nicely done, _Sev_."

He's confused.

But from what he can understand through her angry rant, she blames him and fellow Slytherins for some sort of scuffle she got into.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Lily." He scowls at her, feeling angry and helpless at the accusation and he knows that nothing he says will change her perspective of him. He is to blame for a lot of things but right now, all he feels is resentment and the overpowering sense of being genuinely wronged. "I haven't tried to hurt you or your bloody friend. Be that as it may, I don't want to take this crap anymore; I have enough shit on my plate to deal with, so if you don't mind, I would like to get back to my reading. In peace."

His words leave her speechless.

* * *

She caresses her wand softly, mutely watching the group.

They are celebrating.

The loud clinks, the jaded laughter—it all infects her wound, she feels trapped and free and she needs to breathe, get out of here but there is work to do—she has murder written on her hands tonight.

She's hidden behind a thick curtain, close to the ladies' room, and she's waiting for her target to leave the table

Her brown eyes are crystallised.

She must do it tonight or the anguish might depart and she might be forced to feel—remorse.

The bar is loud and stuffy; Bellatrix and her troupe are careless—her dark eyes are beautifully etched in the sallow skin of her face, her hair falls over her shoulders in cascading curls and her lips are full of laughter and life—Hermione closes her eyes.

 _She's a Death Eater._

 _She's been a Death Eater for years now_.

Hermione looks like herself; she has not bothered to change her features for one simple reason—she wants Bellatrix to look into her eyes and see who she is, she wants her face to be the last thing engraved in her mind before she departs.

A few minutes pass and she sees her chance—Bellatrix leaves her perch in a hurry, for some reason, and Hermione sidles through the barely open door leading to the ladies' room.

The bathroom is darker than she expected but it works on her side.

She quickly enters the nearest stall and pulls up her legs, using her toes to balance her on the pot and she rests her elbows on her knees—she has to make sure that Bellatrix sees the stall as unoccupied.

And then she waits.

She waits.

A low creak—the door opens and she sees black heels step across the tiled floor—the door to her stall opens noiselessly and Bella finds herself confronted by an unfamiliar woman with wild brown hair, holding a steady wand to her face.

This should be fun.

"What the—"

Those are the last words that leave her tongue before Hermione's stunner catches her squarely in the chest.

Having taken the spell at point-blank range, her feet are torn from the floor and she flies backwards, slamming into the wall with a distinct thud—her black curls spread all over her face in an ugly fashion and her body grotesquely twisted into a dark heap on the ground—Hermione watches the spectacle with a stony expression on her face.

She has to hurry.

She has to do this.

' _The insane cackle was unexpected; she exchanged a look of fear with him—his eyes were narrowed and his upper lip was curled in disgust—they hide behind the bushes, trying to keep out of sight._

" _Bellatrix."_

 _He nodded._

" _Stay here." He grabbed her shoulder and pushed her down further. "I will take care of it."_

 _She felt fear._

 _Deep. Raw. Stinging fear._

" _But professor—" she protested futilely._

 _The soft rustle of fabric told her that he had already left.'_

She holds the wand lazily, between her two fingers—her brown eyes slightly narrowed and her blood pumping fast in anticipation—she will have murder on her hands tonight.

Someone knocks on the door, she has charmed it shut, and she curses under her breath.

 _Shit_.

"Um, just a second," she calls out loudly, her voice breaking. "I'll be right out."

 _Okay, quickly._

She grabs a fistful of hair from the witch's head and pushes a few strands into the small hip-flask she's been carrying around all evening, stowing away the rest for later use.

Next, she proceeds to strip the hateful witch of her clothing and puts them on herself. It's a good thing that they are of the same size and the clothes fit her perfectly. Meanwhile, the Polyjuice Potion froths and bubbles whilst she drags Bellatrix's body to another stall and shuts the door behind her, sealing it with the most powerful concealing spell she knows.

She gulps down the vile liquid in one go and holds onto the wooden door while her body mutilates and transforms.

 _Two minutes_.

Two minutes is all takes for her to don her enemy's appearance.

"All yours." She opens the bathroom door and gestures a perplexed looking woman inside. "I'm so sorry, I was trying to change and I needed some privacy."

* * *

"—And then, I said to the bloody bastard that he was braving a very thin line before he tried to make a grab for my wand—can you believe it, the fucking _mudblood_ tried to snatch my wand! They really shouldn't be letting that sort of filth in, you know!" Her husband slammed his beer mug on the table and she couldn't help making a face. "Is everything alright, Bella?"

"Of course," she lies and touches his arm intimately, flashing him a fake smile. "I want to retire for the night though. I'll just—freshen up and maybe we can leave afterwards."

"Anything for you, my cherry." He slobbers and plants a wet kiss on her cheek. "Don't be long."

She smiles faintly and leaves the table.

* * *

The bathroom is still empty.

And Bellatrix still lies unconscious, stowed away in the corner stall.

Hermione frowns deeply.

 _I don't have to do this._

She retrieves her own wand from the holster clasped around her arm and pushes open the stall door, training it on the motionless body—she swallows, her hand trembling slowly as she tries to push down all thought and emotion—it has to be done.

 _I'm still breathing and hence, you cannot._

A silent streak of violent green light leaves her trembling wand—the stunned body shudders and convulses, a shock of strange electricity running through it and Hermione has that horrible urge to puke as she watches—she feels her stomach clench and rushes to the nearby basin, retching violently.

 _Still breathing._

She slashes her wand through air, pilfering the contaminated surroundings for energy, and transfigures Bellatrix's body into a stone.

A small, inconspicuous stone.

 _Compose yourself, Hermione._

She picks up the round stone gingerly, staring at it with parted lips.

 _You need to leave._

She tosses it into the pot, flushing immediately afterwards, and pauses.

 _I need to wash my hands._

 _I need to wash my hands._

* * *

He ties the small piece of folded parchment to the owl's foot and releases him out of the window.

The sky is cold and grey

He has written to her twice and she hasn't replied.

This is his third time.

It's nagging him—the lack of communication from her, the absence of any way forward and the general air of uncertainty surrounding everything he knows and desires—it is physically painful.

 _Why hasn't she answered yet?_

 _Why would she simply disappear?_

And he still doesn't have his money. He has planned to use it for some crucial purchases, namely Basilisk venom and Tarantula poison, but now that has to be delayed.

And despite all this, her existence nags him.

Something itches in his brain and he feels like he should have stayed at the inn and dug deeper, no matter the consequences—he should have tried to find out everything possible, he should have learned about her and everything she's doing, for the lack of clarity is killing him at this point. He feels like he's balancing himself on the sharp edge of a knife—he's trying to keep his independence and he needs money for the same _, her money_ , to be precise and if he cannot secure an agreement with her he will undoubtedly end up at the Dark Lord's feet—but something holds him back from venturing further in his dealings with Malfoy and his Master and he doesn't know what it is.

Maybe he should just give in— _isn't that what he always wanted_?

 _Perhaps._

 _Perhaps._

 _I still don't know for sure_ , he thinks as he climbs down the steps leading him away from the Owlery.

He's early to breakfast, he notices when he enters the Great Hall.

The Slytherin table is by far the most crowded one; it is an unusual occurrence.

Most of them are huddled over a single issue of the Daily Prophet, despite the fact that almost all of them have subscriptions for the same.

"Snape." Avery motions to him, his face drawn in a dark scowl. "Did you read the issue? Do you know what has happened?"

"No." Severus slides into a chair next to him, picking up somebody's discarded paper. "What happened?"

On the front page is printed a photograph of a very attractive woman, wearing black robes and a silver necklace—she is sneering pointedly at the cameraman—under the photograph, painted in bright black words is a single headline _: Lady of the Lestrange clan missing: Aurors suspect local involvement._

"She is related to many people here, either on the Black side of her family or on the Lestrange side," Avery murmurs out of the corner of his mouth. "She's Regulus's cousin too, you know."

 _Sirius Black?_

Severus blinks at the image.

Of course he knows about her. It is common knowledge in Slytherin circles that she is the Dark Lord's favourite; one of his staunchest followers—her allegiance is very much apparent even to those who choose to overlook the Dark Lord's rise and the control he has extended over Britain—she is as notorious as she is beautiful.

 _Disappeared?_

 _What could have happened to her_?

More importantly, who would be crazy enough to lay a hand on her?

* * *

He tiptoes through the alleyway in darkness.

 _Meet me in the lane behind the Three Broomsticks_ , she has written to him and against his better judgement, his feet have carried him to Hogsmeade.

No one knows that he is outside this time.

No one.

He walks quickly, his heavy dragon hide boots marking the snowy pathway with deep indentations.

 _Sirius fucking laughed at the lunch table today_. News has travelled fast and he fucking laughed—the newspaper clutched in his hands, cheering it on—if Severus reads them right, he will be in trouble sooner than he wishes.

 _Good riddance._

He reaches his destination with time to spare but she is already there. Her back is turned to him—he notices that she is wearing a brown cloak, covered from head to toe in its sleek fabric,, and her hair is spread out over her shoulders in haywire fashion—she looks nice and he frowns at that thought.

"Severus." She glances behind her and he notices that something is wrong with her.

He doesn't know what it is—maybe it is the changed manner in which she walks to him slowly, or maybe it is her full lips, parted in thought and inaction—she looks bleak, like a caged animal that knows he's up for slaughter.

 _I'm in here._

 _Can you see me_?

"I was surprised to receive your letter." Her voice is soft and dark, like a piece of very fine velvet made for kings.

He shudders at the empty notes in her voice.

"I need money, the money you _owe_ me." He presses his lips. "I also needed to talk to you about—on Christmas... we spoke about you financing my projects."

Her eyes are unfocused.

 _Is she under influence...?_

 _The Fall._

 _The Fall._

"Of course." She leans against the wall and glares at him—he notices the prominent red veins stand out against the white of her eyes; this is a bad idea—he doubts that she can comprehend much in such darkness and inebriation of mind.

"I should go." He shivers against the wind. "I will speak to you when you're sober."

He turns to leave.

"Don't go." Her hand rests on his arm, her fingers curling inwards in a slight tug at the fabric.

A vein twitches in his temple.

"Here." She pushes a large bag into his right hand and he realises that her fingers are cold—"Take this. It is more than what I promised and should keep your project going for a while, as well. Just... _Don't go_."

He's torn.

He must go.

 _Must he?_

She's not in the right state of mind—he shudders when she touches his face, her thin fingers briefly caressing his sallow skin and for a moment he feels his heartbeat stop—he _must_ go.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, trumpets blare.

 _What_?

He turns again but she grabs his hand this time, holding it so tight that it almost breaks his fingers—she clutches at his collar and pulls him forward, her soft lips meeting his dry ones in one beautiful twist of agony and hope and he finds himself giving in—she pulls at his hair and deepens the kiss when he responds; she nibbles at his lower lip and he retaliates by softly grazing his teeth over her upper lip.

She's cold... so cold and her weight is light.

Her hair is twisted in his fingers and she tugs at his buttons—he has too many of those and it isn't the right time or place but gods he wants her to continue her ministrations because it doesn't matter if she is crazy and he's poor, nothing matters except for the palpitating darkness and her scarred limbs enticing him into a reckless embrace of glory with Fall —he has no will left to repulse her advances today.

"Not—here," he breathes out at the first pause.

She looks confused and flushed—there's alcohol in her bloodstream and he has no doubt that she has injected cocaine—she sniffs at his robes.

"Come with me." She grabs his hand and drags him towards the pub.

He doesn't stop her.

* * *

"Don't look," she whispers quietly, keeping her eyes closed whilst she undresses. "Tell me that I'm right Severus."

She drops her robe to the floor, her flimsy cotton dress following the lead and he watches silently, perched on the edge of a hired bed.

"Right about what?"

She kisses him on the cheek, her soft lips still lingering on his skin and he feels—different.

"Just— _right_ ," she repeats, nibbling on his ear. Her teeth feel sharper than he would have guessed. "Tell me that I am doing the right thing, that I haven't—that I'm right..."

He doesn't know what she's talking about but he agrees nevertheless, whispering a quiet 'yes' into her bushy hair.

"What would you know..." She chuckles darkly, her laughter an erratic melody. "You wouldn't know anything at all..."

She tries to reach for his collar but he's faster this time and he grabs her hands in one fist, effectively putting a stop to her fumbling fingers as he rakes his eyes all over the naked flesh she has offered him.

"Who did this to you?"

He points at the black wound in her side, drawing her closer so that she lands in his lap with a soft plop.

She pauses, laying her head on his shoulder for comfort and something else that he cannot quite discern her intent...

"It's a long story," she answers, her voice raw with emotion and a choked-back sob. "I've sinned gravely, Severus. However will I find absolution—how can I ever forgive myself and others...?"

He nuzzles her neck, breathing in the faint aroma clinging to her skin.

 _This isn't right._

"Do you think I'm crazy?"

Her flesh is fair, marred in places by a few deep scars and the long, black gash on her abdomen—it looks dead and he has the strangest urge to touch it—he reaches out a pale finger to feel the black scar.

"No." She slaps away his hand, looking petulant. "Don't touch me there."

He respects her wish.

Her eyes are drooping to a close and he doesn't know what she wants anymore because she cannot keep conscious for long and would probably faint in his arms—he doesn't know what _he_ wants either.

Their fingers intertwine in harmony and she is pushed into the lumpy mattress, gazing up at the ceiling in listless gloom.

He kisses her on the neck, her face and the sensitive spot on her back—she shivers and it drives her mad; the longing, the pain, the eternal wait: she will reclaim her paradise tonight and may it be her last conquest before she ventures out to her destruction—Severus is relentless in the painstaking pursuit of pleasure.

"What do you dream of at night?" she asks, using her athletic legs to trap him close to her withering body. She's crumbling, a hollow shell of regrets and wishes but she won't let it put her out—she twists her arm and reaches for the hook on her back, undoing the clasp with practised ease and closes her eyes.

"Um, Hermione... Do you want me to—this wound looks deep—"

"Ignore it."

"But—"

"Please."

She opens her eyes, hoping to see someone she knew once and is disappointed at the sight of an unsure teenager's head looming above her naked body—something breaks and her chest feels constricted; she doesn't know if she wants it anymore and it isn't right of her to do this to him; he is too young and innocent to be sullied by the likes of her—she clicks her tongue and pushes him away.

"You should leave."

 _Gods, he even has his pants on_.

One would think—no, he's just naive.

Besides, it would take him less time to get dressed now.

"What?"

" _Take your clothes and leave, Severus._ " She pulls away the bed-sheet and covers her upper body, glaring at him. He needs to go before she passes out. " _Now_."

He's perplexed and mortified at her rudeness; he grabs his shirt and his robes, working fast to clothe himself.

She doesn't know what he's thinking for she has turned her head away and she won't look at him.

She's going to cry.

And she wants to wash her hands.

' _I'm fascinated by the grandeur that human beings can experience—the kind of grandeur that chokes up your throat and makes your eyes go round in amazement, the kind of grandeur that is indefinable—a masterpiece that leaves your mouth open and makes your heart stop. You understand, professor, don't you? I want to experience that once before I die, just once and I know that I will have no further regrets... ever. And sometimes, I believe that if we were to win, victory would be very much like experiencing that grandeur."_

 _He looked at her as if she was crazy._

" _You talk too much, even for a girl." He sneered at her, going back to roasting his meat on a stick._

* * *

 _Hey guys, so tell me if you liked this chapter._

 _Um, please?_

 _I am a bit uncertain, as always, but your glorious reviews always encourage me to write faster and better._

 _Really._


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

* * *

She blinks repeatedly at the table full of trophies in front of her.

She has the locket.

She has the ring.

And she has the cup.

 _The cup._

She throws herself back into her bed as images flash by—Bellatrix unconscious and dead, slumping down the wall; her disguised as her nemesis, walking through the corridors of the Lestrange Manor; her gaining access to the Lestrange vault through forged identity and finally, _her_ stealing the cup.

For that had been her true goal in assailing Bellatrix.

Hadn't it?

Hadn't it?

And now the entire world thinks that Bellatrix, Voldemort's darkest, most fervent supporter is missing.

She's dead.

And Hermione has killed her.

 _She has done right, hasn't she?_

The lines of fiction and real have blurred in her head and she fancies that she can hear them talk.

She can hear them say words to her, in her sleep, in moments when she is awake and there is no respite. They tell her to get on with her task for the time allotted to her in this life is short and she needs to—

But they are just voices.

She hopes.

And then, there is this matter of _him_. He—he's just a reflection of his older self—he isn't real and if she accomplishes her goal, he will not matter at all.

Nothing will, really.

She must keep away from him.

She has to keep away from Severus Snape.

* * *

She's crashing mourning but she knows that no one will question her presence.

Bellatrix's funeral is a grand affair apparently; those snotty pureblood families do not miss extravagant shows of wealth for trivial things such as death.

Of course, Bellatrix's death must be quite an amusing affair for many—the witch had very few friends in life and her enemies and colleagues must have rejoiced in her death.

The funeral is being held at Charlotte's Hall, close to the Grimmauld Place. The stone work on the walls is delicate and rich and she cannot help being awed by the rich shades of black that envelope this grandiose hall. There's a large chandelier hanging by the ceiling and it holds black candles; the catering table is long and adorned with a large variety of delicacies and whatnot; the mourners seem rather disinterested and bored—they are merely passing time in formalities and making acquaintances for later use and perusal and she cannot fault them, for Bella had no friends that would mourn her passing; even her husband seems less of a widower and more a bachelor, fawning as he is over a blonde lady dressed richly in midnight blue robes.

What a sordid end it must be to have no one regret your dying.

She realises that that would probably be her fate as well.

They don't know that she's dead, of course. They cannot have found her body.

But _He_ must know that she has passed.

Yes, Voldemort's Dark mark would tell him that one of his most faithful followers was dead. Perhaps that is why they are holding a funeral for her.

Lucius is her target for the day.

He stands on one side of the hall; dressed in grey and white—Narcissa is attending to guests with her family.

She should get started.

She saunters through the crowd, seemingly at ease amidst the throng, and she is pleased when recognition lights up his eyes and a small smile curves his lips upwards

"I am very sorry for your loss, Mr Malfoy," she utters in a quiet tone, placing a hand on his arm—she lets it linger there for a while, the pressure of her fingers just a little bit more than is appropriate and she knows that he must get the point.

His silver eyes enlarge slightly.

"We all share the sorrow in her demise, Hermione. She was an exceptional witch."

"Indeed." She takes a sip from her goblet, watching him keenly with her brown eyes. "If you don't mind my asking, Lucius, how did she die?"

He doesn't miss her use of his first name and a hint of soft smile crosses his thin lips.

"We're unsure. Her body hasn't been recovered yet—but of course, there are other ways of determining if a person is living and I'm afraid that she went missing a few weeks ago and her death was confirmed thereafter. No one knows how she met her end; the Aurors are trying to solve the mystery and I'm sure that the culprits will be apprehended soon."

She pauses.

"It must be devastating—for the family... to lose a daughter so young and accomplished..."

Lucius purses his lips, his hungry eyes lingering on her features for a while. She can tell by the glint in his eyes that he is more than a little pleased that Bellatrix has disappeared—she has always been his major contender for the Dark Lord's favours.

But he dips his head in acknowledgement. "It is a sore loss and is especially trying on Lord Black and his wife."

She ventures to smile at him a little; a sort of confused, half-hearted smile that she hopes is full of longing for she is counting on his intelligence to take another hint. He isn't an idiot, she knows that much at least, which is what makes this a lot harder than her tryst with Rodolphous.

She has tarried for too long and she comes to a conclusion that he isn't going to ask her the question she desires of him. She's about to turn away, giving him a short bow.

"Hermione." He fingers the brim of his goblet, pursing his lower lip and drawing it inside. "Do you think... would it be entirely inappropriate if we met for drinks later? A place of your choice, of course."

She pretends to be surprised, her eyes growing round and her lips quivering just a little bit.

She pretends to sneak a swift look at Narcissa.

She also pretends that this is entirely unexpected and she also pretends to brush off her awkwardness by straightening her long black velvet dress.

"No," she says after a while. He looks a bit put out. "I mean—I don't think it would be inappropriate at all, perhaps the Dragon Cove would suit your taste, I prefer the place to others. It is quiet and... discreet."

His silver eyes gleam with a strange light and he bows in courtesy once more, murmuring softly, "Discretion is advisable."

She raises her glass to him, a playful light dancing in her eyes.

He leaves her side to join forces with some of his cronies and she closes her eyes.

 _Oh, to hell and all it entails—how many fires of this realm and beyond would she have to face so that others may live and forget_?

" _So are you Lucius's little whore now?"_

Snape.

Strangely, she didn't notice his presence in the Hall up until now.

The sneaky bastard.

He's standing behind a pillar, arms crossed and a vengeful scowl crawling over his sallow skin.

"I didn't expect you to be here, Severus."

"Lucius is a good friend of mine and Narcissa is his betrothed; it would be quite inappropriate to not be by his side at this mourning." He leans against the pillar, facing away from her. She can hear his voice but not see him. "But you digress, my dear Hermione—my question remains: are you fucking Lucius Malfoy now?"

She sips from her goblet.

"So what if I am?"

"He's engaged to be married to Narcissa Black. And believe you me; he is not someone to be trifled with."

She edges closer, peeping behind the pillar.

She has a side view of him—the hooked nose, narrowed eyes trying to singe holes in the opposite wall and sleek black hair—it's all very much the same.

"I'm not trifling with anyone, least of all him."

His jaw tightens.

His face snaps to the side and he meets her eyes.

"You're wrong, Hermione. You're all kinds of wrong and if you don't stop here, it won't go well. You'll regret it." He grips his goblet a little too tight. "You disgust me."

Without another word or explanation, he takes off and she's left gaping.

An empty goblet and an empty heart.

 _Touché, my love._

* * *

Lily scans the bookshelves idly. She doubts that the library has that volume on Potions she wants.

"Did you find it already?" Mary asks

"No, I'm still looking."

She moves to another shelf while Mary goes to look in the opposite direction.

There it is, on the top shelf.

 _Just a little further_.

She reaches for the book, standing on tiptoes, but the book is still a few inches higher—she pulls up, trying to reach it once again and loses her balance—someone tries to stop her from tripping but she falls down anyway.

She looks up, noticing who it is, and finds herself oddly empty.

He offers her a hand.

"Thank you," she says and looks away, dusting the dirt off her robes.

He shrugs, ready to move away.

She should talk to him, she should say something; after all, all her words to him in recent days have been so wrong and misguided—but she also finds that her tongue has stuck to the ceiling of her mouth.

"Severus," she manages to breathe out.

He's gathering his books, which fell down from his hands when he tried to help her, and he looks up in surprise.

"I—"

"It doesn't matter."

"What?"

"Whatever you're going to say—don't." He shoves the thick volume of Babbingtons's Grimoire into his bag. "Just—it's okay."

She stands there awkwardly, silently filled with a void that grows bigger and bigger within her and despite his remonstrance she knows that she'll need to say something so that the horrible blob in her chest would burst and she could finally have some peace.

"Please."

His features are confused, a sort of impatient snappishness readable in the curve of his lip.

"I'm sorry."

"For what?'

She caresses the hem of her robe.

"I blamed you for your peers' actions last week. I'm sorry about that."

Severus scratches his head. "Lily, it doesn't even matter now. I'd probably assume the same if I was in your place—probably worse, it's just—it doesn't matter."

She opens and closes her mouth several times, not sure if she believes him but she wants to.

He's so different now—there's a faraway look in his eyes that seems alien to her and she knows that he cannot have changed that much in such a short span of time but he must have—he must have for there is no dark light in his eyes and his countenance isn't bitter—he's just _off_ , the sort of off you might be when nothing interests you anymore and a part of you is lost.

 _How very ridiculous and fanciful her thoughts had become of late_ , she cringed.

"I know you have to be going, Severus, and I too have a class to attend but—do you think we could meet up after dinner, like we used to? I would like to talk about... things, I don't know if you want to but I think I'd like that."

He looks perplexed. "We haven't really hung out since—"

She looks away.

"Yeah."

There's a spider crawling up the wall and she can see it clearly from where she stands, barely able to manage its way up to the window and she has this awful urge to stamp on it.

That's cruel.

" Okay,"

"Yeah?"

"Yes, meet me in the library?"

She frowns, adjusting the belt of her bag.

"No, it'll be too crowded. How about the courtyard close to the greenhouses? Same old place?"

He blinks.

"I'll be there."

* * *

He can't keep it up.

He kicks the nearest pillar, stubbing his toes against it, and groans in pain.

Lucius has extended another invitation to a gathering—a sort of private affair where he can have a word with the Dark lord—anyone else would be honoured, nay, they would be _rejoicing_ right now but he knows the implications of the message. He's expected to commit to their cause—he doesn't know how he feels about it but it's no longer possible for him to evade or postpone this matter.

He shall do what he must; he does believe in the ideals, the cause and its consequences but the rhetoric has turned him off—it's a miracle that no one else sees it for what it is but that only makes his job easier. At least he'll be someone keeping his head and not blindly following; at least he'll have some chance of self determination.

He leans against the pillar, waiting for Lily.

Lily.

What has happened to him of late?

Why does her name or presence no longer make his heartbeat stop?

Has he changed or has she—but no, there will be time for reflection later. Here she comes, dressed in a pale blue sweater under her robes and her hair hanging freely around her shoulders.

"Hey." She seems embarrassed. "Have you been waiting long?"

"No, I just got here."

She seems troubled—he wants to ask but it seems like it would be too much effort and he isn't sure if he needs more drama in his life.

He saw Hermione the other day, the despicable harlot—she is nothing like Lily. Nothing like her, she's disgusting and wrong and he hasn't stopped ruminating over their encounter at the funeral. He can't stop.

He must.

He pouts while she settles down on the bench, drawing up her legs to her chin and encircling them with her arms.

"James wants to get married."

He feels a certain twinge in his heart at her words—but there is something else, a sort of annoyance.

Ah.

He shrugs, looking away.

"I'm not sure that I am ready for—for it."

He raises an eyebrow.

"Does it really matter?"

He shakes his head— _drama, drama, drama._

Fuck, why does every female on this planet want to fuck with his head and leave him in the lurch?

"Aren't you going to say something?"

"Congratulations?"

"Severus, I am serious."

"Look, Lily—we all have problems, and forgive me for being blunt but I am not here to listen to a sob story about how the biggest problem in your life is that your fucking asshole of a boyfriend wants to wed you. I don't care." That's a lie but the sting in his tongue does the trick. She cringes; her lips get thinner and her eyes narrow.

"You're being awfully rude, and there's no call for using such words either—if anything, I don't think either of us is here to listen to stories about how sad our lives are but I was just trying to –"

"Break the ice? That's a jolly good way."

She slides off the bench and closes in on him.

"No, I was just trying to share something that has been preying on my mind. That's what friends do, Severus, or have you forgotten?"

"I thought we stopped being friends a long time ago. Besides, I don't want to _share_."

"That's your problem then, isn't it? Why are you here at all, if none of this is important?"

"Good question."

"Well?"

He sighs, his shoulders sagging.

He doesn't know.

"It's—you're right, I have a lot on my mind and it's not exactly a cake-walk. This life-shit is a serious business."

She snorts, throwing back her head and letting out some air.

"You don't have to tell me. So what's the problem you've got yourself into?"

He runs a hand through his slick black hair.

"It's nothing." He shakes his head in denial, as if living a personal wish. It is so easy—so strange how lies come to him with ease and comfort. "Just—nothing."

She tilts her head, not quite believing him, and raises her eyebrow at him.

Her eyes are so green.

"You know I don't believe that one bit, but you can have your secrets—I have mine too."

The air they breathe turns into vapours of ice.

They stand there; eerily empty of thought and conversation is harder to come by.

"Remember when we were kids and we'd go to that ancient tree in the park—it had huge branches spreading all over and we'd climb and hide and pretend that we were pirates sometimes and you'd show me how to do simple spells, like creating leaves and butterflies out of nothing and it was all so surreal back then—"

He presses his lips, trying to forget that memory. Of course he remembers.

Everything.

"Your point being?"

"I don't like growing up. It's hard. And I would like to go back to being a make-believe pirate, sailing in a make-believe ship with my friend, riding the raging seas."

Sometimes, he feels the same. Except his childhood has been bad and he has scars—not the kind of endearing, fond memories she has but darker, more painful ones and he doesn't miss them.

He does miss her company though.

"Sometimes," he begins after a long time, fumbling with the collar of his shirt, "I wish that we hadn't quarrelled; I—find it lonely when I am looking over a problem in Potions or researching a Transfiguration essay—it's been very different."

She observes him silently.

"Sometimes, I feel lost—I know what to do and I know what I am about to embark upon but the prospect of it all is— _daunting_ in a lot of ways and there's pressure on all sides, like you have to belong and I want to belong but somehow I just don't seem to fit—anywhere," she said, staring up at the sky.

"But you do belong," he says, confused. "You're one of the brightest witches at Hogwarts, everyone thinks so—you have exceptional grades in almost all subjects and you're going to have a good job when you graduate."

She shrugs. "I guess one could say the same for you."

He snorts, shaking his head.

"Never."

She watches his face silently.

"I've missed this—I have always liked talking to you, for some reason. And it hasn't changed since—"

She breaks off, he voice fading to a whisper.

Something lingers on the edge of his tongue. He should say it, shouldn't he?

She looks like Hermione from a side angle, he thinks and frowns.

Not her.

No.

Not that bitch.

"Do you think—we could be friends again?"

She smiles a little at him.

"We could try."

* * *

" _We're lost, professor," she said, shaking her head. "We've been moving in circles for hours and I simply don't believe that there is a way out."_

" _Are you always this—annoying?"_

 _She shut up, glaring at him._

" _We'll find a way, there has to be one, even if it's going to take a long time to get there. Just—don't talk."_

 _She stalked off and settled down under a tree, muttering to herself._

" _What was that?" he called out, narrowing his eyes at her._

" _Nothing," she replied loudly and added under her breath, "at least, nothing that would do your ears any good, you hook-nosed, pale faced, domineering bastard_."

She glances in the large, silver encased mirror and she cannot recognise the person she has become.

 _What is she doing?_

"This wine is one of the finest—my grandfather had it especially imported from the Americas." Lucius hands her a goblet full of red liquid and she stares at herself in the mirror, hypnotised.

 _What is she doing?_

The long green silk dress becomes her well—it has satin laces gracing the hem, a simple cut that adds to her flowing figure and the sequins that encircle her waist add to the charm. The small locket she has worn is an heirloom—old and jaded but it's green and it serves the purpose. She hasn't worn earrings but her makeup stands out and she knows that her hair has been done beautifully by the same waitress-friend who lives in the Diagon Alley.

"If I might," Lucius touches her shoulder lightly, whispering quietly in her ear, "you look beautiful."

She smiles at him, nearly believing.

"It isn't something I haven't heard before."

He raises an elegant eyebrow, confused.

"Lucius, I am quite used to—being shown a good time, you know."

He frowns at her words, as if she has insulted him. Of course. He probably thinks that he's the only one who has ever enticed her and though it is to be a very short affair, he still feels entitled to purity in her flesh.

How—quaint.

"I don't understand," he finally says in a measured tone. His face has an ice mask of its own—she dislikes him utterly but she doesn't hate him. This is a man who almost murdered her once upon a time. This is also a man who stood by and watched whilst her world crashed.

"This manor... is big. It must have its secrets and whatnot, no?" She trails a brightly painted nail down his chin, leaving a faint mark on his white skin. "I want—excitement tonight, more than just the usual affair to remember—I want you to hunt me, and I will be your white dove, a bird fleeing the hunter. Wouldn't it be— _exquisite_?"

His mouth closes and opens a few times.

"I'm not sure what you're implying," he sips wine from his goblet slowly, "but the prospect is bound to be...exciting. What will be the stakes?"

She draws closer, pressing her lithe body against his and feels his rich scent.

"Plunder, at will," she whispers, an elusive smile shimmering on her painted lips. "What will be the playground, my lord?"

He caresses her chin, lifting it up slightly.

"It's a good thing my manor is empty, isn't it?"

"Indeed."

He raises his wand and the large door leading out of his room opens, bringing in soft brown light indoors from the corridor.

"Shall we begin?" He raises his glass to her.

"But of course."

She returns the gesture and the two metal goblets meet, making a clinking noise.

* * *

Alright so I don't even know if i have done a good job. Leave a little review.


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